


Weight

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional, M/M, Romance, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2902931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>A day, it changes everything.</i> A what-if scenario on Lars's panic attack the eve of Download 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning and the End

“Lars, we’re home.”

He hoped for a response—a murmur, a grunt. Something. But when James looked to the passenger’s side, Lars was still slumped against the car door, his neck now at a weird angle. His nose and cheek pressed against the window. Condensation formed around the spot Lars breathed on. It was a normal sight. A needed familiarity.

“Lars.” He laid a hand over Lars’s thigh, giving it a small shake. “Lars, wake up. We’re home.”

Lars’s head nudged down and to the left.

“Lars?”

Still no response.

The knot in James’s chest tightened a little more.

His hand left Lars’s thigh for the side of his neck, pulling Lars’s head away from the window. His other hand came into play, reaching for Lars’s right bicep. He situated him again in the same position from before: head and torso turned towards him, his cheek on the curve of the car seat. There was no need to fetch the pillow that fell into the backseat.

He cupped a hand over Lars’s cold cheek.

“Baby?”

Nothing.

Then, the nose scrunched up. The eyelids squinted. And a sleepy murmur came out from Lars’s moving lips.

James released the breath he held back.

_Finally._

He leaned over to press a kiss to Lars’s cool cheek, and whispered against the skin, “I’ll be right back.”

The car swayed some when he shut the door behind him. It swayed again and creaked as well, taking the wheelchair out from the trunk. He fixed it open quick on the driveway concrete and rolled it up to passenger’s side door.

Lars hadn’t moved. James opened the car door as far and wide as it could go, then situated the wheelchair adjacent to Lars’s seat, locking the breaks down so it’d stay in place.

He pushed the big quilt around Lars’s waist down and away, over Lars’s legs.

Lars murmured again, louder than before.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s me.” James bent down and reached for Lars’s legs first, slipping an arm underneath his knees. “I’m just helping you get into the house.” He wound his other arm under Lars’s shoulders. “Here we go.”

His back screamed as he gritted his teeth, clenched his arm muscles and lifted Lars up and out of the car. He hissed through his nose, turned and bent again, laying Lars into the wheelchair, before his meager strength gave out on him.

Lars looked like a rag doll in the chair, once he settled him down. His head lolled backwards, his arms flopped in his lap, his mouth parted open. The drugs still had a hold over him, like the doctor had said they would. But for this long, and still at this intensity?

He ran a hand over Lars’s hair.

_At least we’re home now._

James fought the pain shooting up and down his spine as he bent over again to fix Lars’s legs over the footrests. He circled around, squeezed his fingers around the handles and took the brakes off, pushing Lars away from the car and up the driveway to the side entrance of the house. 

He left Lars alone for a moment to shut and lock the car, and to push the side door to their backyard open. And there, circling up from the pool area and up to the back door was the ramp Pepper promised he’d help make for them, before they came back from Germany.

The house looked the same as they left it months ago, save the dirty dishes. Their maid had seen to that while they were gone. He took his time pushing Lars around the kitchen table, through the living room and down the hallway to the guest room. It felt good walking through the house again, smelling whatever it was the house smelled of, and not that hospital sterile again.

James parked the wheelchair next to the bed. There he saw the extra blankets and pillows laid out by their maid, just as he requested. He situated the pillows in a pile against the headboard first, then pushed the sheets back.

He returned to Lars’s side, laying a hand over his shoulder. “Baby? I’m going to put you into bed now.” He squeezed it. “Okay?”

Lars murmured, his head lolling to the other side.

James reached down, unhooking the footrests. He slid his arm under Lars’s knee again, the other arm going around his shoulders—his back tensed, the pain from before shooting across his shoulder blades—and he hissed through his gritted teeth once more, lifting Lars up and onto the mattress.

He gathered up the sheets, tucking them around Lars’s body, all the way up to his chin. Pain shot down his arms as he unraveled two of the extra blankets. He’d need some real rest soon. The 10 to 12 hours of constant traveling finally took their toll on his body, especially his back. First class flight or not, it couldn’t save a week’s worth of stress, sitting in an unforgiving hospital chair.

When finished, James leaned over him, passing a hand over his hair again in small pets.

“Sleep well, Lars. I’m right here.”

Lars murmured in response, his face scrunching up—and James froze, watching his eyes flutter open into two slits at first, where he saw more white than iris. The flutters grew in intensity, and soon, he watched Lars’s glossy, heavy-lidded eyes roll towards him.

“J… Jay…”

“Shh, baby. Shh.” He crouched down, coming nose-to-nose with him. “Get some rest. It’s the only way you’ll get that drug out of your system faster.”

“James…”

“Shh. We’ll talk later.” He leaned up to kissed his forehead. Against the skin, he whispered, “I love you.”

When he looked back at Lars, he found his eyes closed, and his lips curved up into a weak smile.

James waited beside the bed, continuing his gentle hand strokes over Lars’s hair, until he heard his breathing temper out, followed by small snores. Only then did he stand back up and leave the room, keeping the door open behind him. With the house so quiet, he could be in the kitchen and hear anything from the guest room, should something—God forbid—go wrong.

He sat on the couch in the living room, staring out at the skyline view of San Francisco Bay. The City and the Bridge lit up the ocean, the usual fog hovering in the horizon, ready to roll into the Bay at night. The last remnants of today’s sunset lingered in the sky, pinks and purples and a vague touch of orange pushed away slowly by a sinking blackness. And then the realization sucker punched him: this wasn’t Germany, or England, or a hospital. This was home. They finally made it home.

Lars was home.

James sunk into the couch, his hands coming up and covering his face.

His inhale was as shaky as his exhale.

_Shit._

He ran his palms down, over his cheeks, jawline, and neck, bending his head back to stare at the ceiling and blink the blurriness out of his vision.

They were home. They were going to be okay.

Lars was going to be okay.

He sat on the couch and watched all the hues in the sky disappear, until the house was left in darkness. Fatigue never settled.

With a long sigh, James slapped his hands on his knees, pushed up from the couch and walked over to the guest room.

Inside, Lars slept on, his cheek planted to the pillows.

James stood in the doorway, listening to his snores for a little while, then headed back down the hallway for the kitchen.

There, he sat at the table, a week’s worth of mail to sift through on one side, a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios on the other. In front of him rested a notepad, where he made the first of what would be many itineraries for the time being. Essential things to do, important phone calls to make, people he'll need to see eventually—everything he learned from Lars over the years. He worked on it for some time, finalizing it a little past midnight, and then left for the master bedroom upstairs, where he lay over the covers, curled onto his side and finally forced his eyes shut.


	2. Altered Course

He didn’t have time to panic when he heard the news. While James _did_ feel the floor give way underneath him at the words ‘Lars’ and ‘hospital’ used in the same sentence, Kirk grabbed his attention—and his arm—and said to Dan, their tour production manager, “Okay, we’ll fix this.”

Kirk was the real one in control that evening. General Hammett, along with Rob, organized the setlist, talked to production, discussed lighting cues and pyro, rallied all willing drummers backstage to line up in front of the Tuning and Attitude Room and more. Everything Kirk did, he learned right from Lars, when Lars did damage control for a hospital-ridden James.

And yet, the technicians, engineers, pyro guys, riggers, they all came to him for the final say so. “What about this change?” “How about using that during Battery?” “Spotlight on you or on Joey during the Kirk hang?” As if he really knew what to do.

As if he really cared to begin with.

His attention during rehearsals stayed away from Lars’s kit and onto the phone. Updates came to him in the form of text messages. Not as frequent as he wanted, but at least he knew when the plane had landed, knew when Lars was en route to a hospital, and knew when Lars was admitted and being treated.

Lombardo tried to lighten the mood with some stupid jokes. Jordison suppressed his obvious nervousness and focused on band dynamics, timing and cues. Flemming knew it all by heart, and he only had to perform one song. Kirk kept the mood cordial and professional. Rob helped.

James just waited.

Not a single text or call came through from Steve, Lars’s PA, until a couple minutes before they were due on stage. His PA Ray came rushing up to him, buzzing phone in hand, and James snatched it up, flipped the top open, and found a text inside.

_He’s being taken into a private room now._

James texted, _Is he okay?_

The response came back fast.

_I hope so._

Music saved him again. He turned his anxiety into anger, lashing it out during all the fast songs—Battery, Horsemen, Creep. His resolve weakened during Fade, and especially during Nothing Else Matters. But at least for an hour and a few minutes, he didn’t think about that text.

It was only after, rushing from the venue straight to the airport tarmac in one of their private vans, that he called Steve directly. “What the hell did you mean by ‘I hope so’? What’s going on with my Lars?”

The prolonged pause, followed by Steve’s sigh crackling over the line, twisted James’s stomach up into more knots.

“Lars is… stable.”

“Stable.”

“Yeah. He’s asleep in his room right now.”

James slumped against the side door. In a small, tight voice, he asked, “Is he sick?”

Another pause. Another crackling sigh.

“In a way, yeah.”

He glanced out the window. Up in the distance, he saw the lights of London Heathrow Airport. James felt the van veer into the next lane for the turn off.

In the window, he caught sight of his own fear.

“What do you mean?”

Steve couldn’t explain over the phone. But the doctor at the hospital in Hamburg gave James the answers he never expected. “On the plane from Denmark, Mr. Ulrich endured a severe panic attack. The ambulance on the scene recorded a blood pressure rate of 155/95. When admitted, his blood pressure had skyrocketed to 195/115, so we quickly administered some Ativan intravenously to bring it back down. That seemed to work, until we did a BP check about an hour or so later. He was 165/100 at rest.”

“Jesus.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his other arm folded over his chest. Outside the private room, nurses and other doctors walked the hallway. James looked out the window, watching a nurse wheel someone on a bed with an IV around a corner. “Where is he at now?”

“150/95. That’s still a little too high, but it’s progress.”

_Fuck._ He leaned against the corner, the side of his head pressed to the wall. Anxiety. High blood pressure. Hypertension. Hypochondria.

Under his breath, he mumbled, “What the hell triggered this?”

“That was question I hoped you had an answer for.”

James snorted. “If only.” He sighed through his nose, squeezing the back of his neck. “Where is he now?”

The doctor didn’t answer as quick as before. James met his eye, and his chest and throat tightened when the doctor said, “For the time being, we’ve moved him upstairs to the fourth floor, next to the psych ward.”

His hand fell from his neck.

A page rung over the hospital PA for a nurse.

James recrossed his arms.

The doctor broke their silence. “Mr. Ulrich is a special case.”

“He’s not insane.”

“I’m not implying that he is.”

“Then go put him in a regular room—”

“He is in one.”

“—on a _regular_ floor. Not next to the damn psych ward.”

“He needs the attention of one of our top psych ward nurses, and she can’t rush from one end of the hospital to the other, or onto some other floor. She has to serve other patients. That’s why I placed him in a private room next to it, not committing him into it. While he hasn’t expressed any thoughts or made any attempts on his life, his BP is extremely worrisome, and his mental state during this prolonged attack wasn’t positive either. Only until his BP has lessened and he’s able to talk to one of my colleagues coming from Berlin will I allow him to be released.”

James shook his head no. “He’s not going to do anything stupid. That’s not how Lars is.”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s a real threat that it could develop into something where it is a reality. When someone has such a severe anxiety attack as Mr. Ulrich did, it’s safe to assume that some form of mental stress caused it. Whether that’s from grief, or a memory he’s repressing, or it’s an actual form of depression, I don’t know, and it’s very possible in this case, he doesn’t know either. And until he can control this anxiety and return to a normal BP rate, as far as I’m concerned, he is a threat to himself. He isn’t putting a knife to his throat, but he _is_ obviously digging it into his mind. I only want to prevent anything worse from happening. Worse than what he is already going through.”

He looked away from the doctor, back out the window. His attention stayed on the floor, watching people’s feet on the linoleum outside, and the shine of fluorescent light on its white surface. He heard his own deep breathing, each one tempered and deliberate and slow, and his fingers squeezed and flexed around his biceps off and on.

James swallowed against the tightness in his throat. His voice sounded weak, and too soft, when he said, “I just want to take him home.”

“You will. My colleague from Berlin will be here in the morning to start Lars’s therapy. I assure you, he’s very good at what he does. Once Lars is fit to be released, I’ll have all of his information sent to the doctor of your choosing, so he can continue his therapy at home.”

“Thanks.”

From the corner of his vision, he saw the doctor turn away and head for the door. At the doorway, the doctor turned to him again, a hand on the knob.

“You’re welcome to stay here until visiting hours are over,” he said. “But I’m going to have to impose a curfew on the number of guests he sees until he’s released.”

“Yeah.”

The door opened. “He’s in room 412. I’ll have one of nurses escort you upstairs shortly.”

He waited until the door shut, and he saw the feet of the doctor pass by the room, crossing in and out of his vision, that he allowed his own eyes to shut. He raised a hand to the tear ducts and rubbed them with his fingers for a bit, then rubbed his whole palm over his face, over his hair and back down.

“Shit.” James slammed the back of his head against the wall. Between his clenched teeth, he hissed again, “ _Shit._ ”

“James?”

He startled, taking a step away from the window. There was no white-walled hallway or white-tiled floor outside, only a cloudless sky melting into the Pacific, where sailboats, kayaks, waterskis and the like skipped along San Francisco Bay’s deep blue waves.

Against his ear, Pepper said again, “James? You alright?”

“Yeah.” He turned his back to the window, situating his phone better over his ear. “Sorry about that. I got distracted by something.”

“No worries. So, are you _sure_ there’s nothing else I can do for you? I can stay in town a couple more days.”

“Nah. The ramp you set up was more than enough.”

“Nothing to it,” Pepper said. James entered the kitchen. Garlic and pepper scented the air. “I could even come over and dismantle it before I leave, if you want.”

“It’s fine, Pep. I’ll take care of it later.” He walked to the stovetop, where a big pot of soup cooked, hot steam rising up. He picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the vegetables, noodles and chicken around in the broth. “Not that I don’t want to see you, but right now, I kinda just want it to be me and Lars for a little bit. You know.”

“Hey, I get it. Lars is your priority, as it should be.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Hope he’s enjoying being home again.”

James pulled the spoon out, tapping the excess on the side of the pot. “He will. Once he’s done sleeping off that damn drug the doctor gave him.”

“Still? Wow. Must’ve been something powerful.”

He turned to one of the cabinets, opening it and pulling out a bowl. “It knocked him out from Heathrow until we got home, so yeah.” He settled it down beside the stove. “My back is still bitching at me for it.”

“And that’s when you should’ve called.”

“I can handle it, Pep.”

“I know, but having an extra hand—”

“I need this time alone with him. Okay?” He turned one of the dials to the left. The flames underneath the pot burned all the way, then flickered-clicked off. “He’s not ready yet.”

Silence over the line. James took the opportunity to pour some soup into Lars’s bowl.

Then: “What happened over there, James?”

“That’s not my place to answer.” He fetched a sturdy tray from another cabinet, along with a water glass. “I have to go. Lunch time. Call me before you leave tomorrow?”

“Will do. Take care James.”

“See you.”

He left his cell behind in the kitchen, carrying the heavy tray over to the guest room Lars still occupied. There was a good chance this time Lars would wake up. In the morning, nothing he did seemed to work, and the breakfast James worked hard to prepare went to waste. But when he checked up on he earlier, before calling Pepper, Lars had moved more in his sleep. The sheets hung off his waist, some blankets having tumbled off onto the floor.

Coming into the room again, James now found the comforter and all of the blankets on the floor, and Lars’s legs and arms sprawled in weird directions on the mattress, his shirt riding up on his belly.

James chuckled. He lay their tray of food on top of the dresser, then walked to his bedside.

At the window, he pushed open the curtains a little ways. Light fell over Lars’s sleeping face.

Then, that face scrunched up. Lars grunted, his head turning sharply to the side.

James sat down on the edge of the bed. He rested his palm on top of Lars’s exposed belly. “Babe. Wake up.” He rose his voice, rubbing his hand over the skin. “I made us lunch.”

This time, Lars responded with more than a mumble. He brought his arms came close to his body, and then lifted them up a little ways above his head, stretching his torso out. They soon flopped back onto the bed.

Lars’s head rolled on the pillows towards him. Tired, glossy eyes opened up and met his. “Uhn.”

“Hi there.” He leaned over, kissing his lips briefly. “Hungry?”

A nod.

“I made chicken noodle.” He saw Lars’s eyes widen, and quickly added, “Progresso. Store bought.”

Lars smiled—weak, tired.

James smiled back, kissing his lips again. And for a moment, he felt Lars press back. The sensation warmed his belly and eased away another knot from his chest.

He pushed up from the bed, helping Lars up into a sitting position first against the headboard. When he brought their tray, he laid it adjacent to Lars’s hips, situating it between the two of them for easier feeding.

Lifting the spoonful up to his lips, James blew on the hot liquid a few times. He met Lars’s tired gaze, bringing it to Lars’s lips. “Only eat what you can.”

Lars nodded. His mouth parted open.

They sat in silence as James fed Lars. He hovered his hand under each spoonful to avoid any sudden spills, taking his time bring it to Lars, pass it through his lips, and ease it back out. He occasionally gave Lars breaks to serve him water, again hovering a cupped hand under Lars’s chin. Despite Lars able to eat without a mess, some water did spill over his lips and into James’s palm a few times.

He wiped Lars’s mouth clean with a napkin. His chest tightened, watching Lars’s glare at the empty water glass, only for the glare to dissipate into sadness. A resigned, heavy sadness.

“Hey.”

Lars didn’t move.

James tilted his chin towards him. When their eyes met, James said, “This is temporary. Understand? Those drugs will wear off eventually.”

Lars said nothing.

He finished wiping his mouth, giving the corner of his lips a last rub. He searched Lars’s face, giving it a look over. Pale skin. Tired eyes. Dry lips. Even though he was dressed in normal clothes and not that ugly white outfit, he still looked the same like he did in the hospital. The exact same.

_This_ is _temporary, Lars_. James leaned forward. _You’re going to get better._ He slid a hand behind Lars’s head, bringing it towards him. _You’re stronger than this._ And he pressed a kiss to the bridge between Lars’s eyes, lingering for a moment over the skin. _I have faith in you._

James pulled away. He eased Lars back onto the pillows. “Get some more rest.”

Lars murmured back, “Yeah.”

He gave Lars’s shoulders a quick squeeze, and then stood up from the bed. He picked up the tray of food with him, resting it on the nightstand.

Lars’s attention stayed him as he situated him back into bed. James tucked the sheets around his body, picking up the blankets and comforter and dusting them off, before laying them over him.

Tucking the blanket up to Lars’s chin, as he did the night before, James leaned down, giving Lars a small smile. “Sleep well.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time for dinner.”

Lars managed a small smile back. He nodded, closing his eyes.

James ran a hand over Lars’s hair, and down the side of his cheek.

He fixed all the curtains in the room so no light peeked through the windows, ensuring Lars more needed rest. He took his time leaving the room, careful not to rattle the water glass against the bowl.

In the kitchen, James sat at the table, eating his bowl of soup and plate of crackers. He took his time, listening to the sound of the dishwasher behind him, cleaning the pots, dishes and pans. And in that moment, it starkly reminded him of the hospital, of sitting in a common room every breakfast, lunch and dinner, for a week, listening to nurses chatter, people coming in and out—all that noise and all those people, with him in the middle of it. Alone.

James fought the memories, and the emotions, as he ate the rest of his meal.

When done, he added his bowl to the pile in the dishwasher. He picked up his phone on his way to the living room. Thankfully, there was enough work to be done between now and dinner.

He sat on the couch and picked up from the coffee table today’s itinerary. Pen in hand, he checked off ‘call Pepper’ and ‘feed Lars,’ then moved onto the next item on the list: call Kirk, get update on band statement.


	3. Wavering Radiant

Six days later, and the Lars he saw in the guest room was the same Lars he saw in the hospital: lying on top of the sheets, curled up on his side, his back to the door. And James entered the room the same way he did that first day: petrified, with his chest strung up tight and his head dizzy, waiting for the room to cave in and his world to tilt again. At least, when he rounded the bed and saw Lars there, there was no IV, no beeps from a heart monitor, no white shirt or white pants on Lars’s body. Now, Lars wore his own clothes. Lars lay on his own bed. Lars was out of Germany and back home again. And yet, it still felt like nothing had changed.

With those drugs finally out of his system, Lars could take care of himself. As much as James didn’t mind helping Lars, he knew there was a limit Lars had when it came to accepting assistance. It hurt, seeing the humiliation and shame on Lars’s face those first three days at home, when James bathed him, fed him, clothed him, cleaned up after him. Reminding Lars it was the drugs affecting him this way, and not his condition, didn’t do any bit of good. So he remembered what the psychiatrist said back in Germany, and he gave Lars his needed space once the drugs went away. He let him be. Let him care for himself. 

But it was difficult—more than he expected—standing on the sidelines while Lars managed his day-to-day things, like cook for himself, do his own laundry, all things James had grown accustomed to helping him with. The highlights of his day became their meal times, and when James drove Lars to his therapist.

It was on the third night being home, laying in his cold bed and staring at the ceiling, that James realized a sad truth: he needed to help Lars, more than Lars actually wanted him to. The saddest part was he knew he wouldn’t stop it. To James, helping Lars in any way he could made him feel like he was doing something.

What else could he do, when the person hurting Lars was Lars himself?

“He’s suffering from a form of depression, called dysthymia,” the Berlin psychiatrist, Dr. Conrad, explained to him in private. It was the last day of Lars’s temporary incarceration in Germany. They sat in a tiny office on the floor above Lars’s, a small coffee table the only thing separating them. “It’s less severe than major depression, but equally as debilitating, and frankly, hard to determine. Most people go their whole lives not knowing they suffer from it. Like Lars, they believe that these moments of depression, or melancholy, are part of their character, so he’s never felt it was an issue to bring up with anyone. I’m sure you’ve heard people say he’s a ‘moody person,’ right?”

“Yeah…”

“But the insomnia, his loss of appetite and fatigue are all part of his disorder. He’s also never had a manic or major depressive episode, nor are any of his depressive elements part of a chronic psychosis. Some of his inner thoughts and feelings also reflect the standard norm for people with dysthymia. And, from what little I do know of him, and your band, things haven’t gone that well in the last four years.”

All the major events added up in James’s head. Napster. Jason’s departure. Band therapy. His stint in rehab. The deterioration of their relationships, personal and professional. Uncertain futures. New bassist. Finishing the album. Promoting the album. Bad album reviews and bad fan backlash. Touring again, sober.

And then, there was everything outside the band. More therapy. Couples therapy. More touring. More shows. Dating again. Moving in again. Arguments and making up. More arguments that left too much unsaid and nothing reconciled. Then, the temporary break. James resisting the downward spiral with music, art, photography, friends, prayer. Lars coping by working for hours and hours on end. Not seeing Lars around except at rehearsals. Not seeing him much after shows. Not really thinking much about it. And now, this.

James nodded. “Yeah.”

“All contributions to a depression lasting longer than it should. Despite the moments of normalcy he does have, they only last for a month or two at maximum, before the symptoms return.”

“Does he have to take drugs?”

“For his dysthymia? No. The only prescription I’m giving him, should he absolutely need it, is the Ativan for his panic attacks. I’m recommending psychotherapy for his dysthymia. Cognitive-behavioral has been an effective approach for most patients. I’ll refer you to a great psychologist I know who works near San Francisco. She specializes in CBT, as well as other forms of psychotherapy. Though...” Dr. Conrad sighed. “I’m doubtful on how effective it will actually be.”

James frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Talk-therapy only works if the patient wishes to participates.”

On the guest room bed, Lars stared straight at the wall, his hands tucked under his pillow. It matched another memory perfectly in James’s head, of Lars on his second day in the hospital, refusing to leave his room for anything, except for food, and the therapy sessions he had to attend in order to leave.

“Lars?” He stepped into his line of sight. “It’s time to go.”

“Mm.”

“Would you like anything to eat first?”

In the memory, Lars nodded yes. Now, he grunted, “No.”

“Okay.” James turned away, heading for the door. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

Lars’s first session was supposed to happen on his fourth day being at home. And while Lars was starting to care for himself on the third day, James thought one more day of rest would do him some good. That, and he wasn’t sure Lars was ready, or he himself either. Thankfully, Dr. Klein’s office had a cancellation for the following day.

Yesterday, they arrived ten minutes ahead of time. Neither spoke much on the ride there. It was short drive to begin with, her office located in the San Rafael area, fifteen minutes from the house. There, Lars filled out delivered the paperwork needed, handed them to the secretary, and at eleven precisely, a brown-eyed, short-haired blonde stepped into the waiting room. She wore a cream-colored sweater and black pants, looking somewhere in her early-to-mid forties.

“Lars?” No German accent, like James had assumed. She smiled and offered a hand out. “I’m Dr. Klein.”

The hour came and went fast. By the time Lars emerged from the room, it was lunch time, and James surprised Lars on the way home with some drive-through Taco Bell.

Lars didn’t discuss how the session went as they ate their food. He wasn’t up for much conversation at all. “All talked out, you know?” he said, with this look on his face that upset James’s stomach. But James didn’t push. Dr. Conrad told him so. “He has to come to you. It’s going to be hard, but you have to let Lars come to you. It’s the only way you’ll know the therapy is working.”

Today, they arrived to Lars’s follow up session ten minutes late. Lars didn’t try to smooth it over with his usual sweet-talking. He said, “Lars Ulrich, my appointment was at eleven,” the secretary buzzed the doctor, Dr. Klein came out, and Lars walked right into the room.

James busied himself with the magazines on the table. Mindless drivel to keep his mind occupied for the hour.

His attention soon drifted away from pictures of celebrity dresses and hook-ups to one of the windows in the small office space. 

Another blue sky, where thick clouds floated by. Big trees in the distance, green and branches swaying in the summer breeze. A familiar view that he saw out a different window, on the other side of the world, one week ago.

“Was it good?”

James turned away from the hospital window to the bed, where Lars lay awake, curled up on his side. His white clothes blended into the sheets, the walls and the pillows. Anja, Lars’s nurse, had left for the psych ward again, leaving them alone for the time being.

“What was good?”

“You know.”

James frowned.

Lars looked away. He curled up tighter, his knees coming up to his chest, his fingers clutching into the pillow’s thin fabric.

Outside the hospital door, a nurse passed by, wheeling beside her a full IV.

He nearly missed Lars’s whisper. “The gig.”

It was a topic neither addressed so far, because neither one of them really found the time to talk. Forty-eight hours into the incarceration—observation, Dr. Conrad said—and Lars primarily slept most of the day, attending therapy sessions when awake, and the rest of the time, spent doing what he had to do with Anja. Moments alone became rare. Now, James had Lars talking, and he asked the question James was waiting for. A question he had the answer to.

“It wasn’t you.”

Lars’s eyes flickered up.

He crossed the room, coming to Lars’s bedside. Lars’s chin tilted up. James’s neck tilted down.

His hand cupped Lars’s cheek.

Lars closed his eyes, turning his head slightly into James’s palm.

James thumbed the corner of his lips.

“Let’s go.”

He turned around. Lars stood in front of him, hands stuffed in his jean front pockets. Off to the side, Dr. Klein observed them, a hand on the doorframe. James met her eye. She gave him a brief smile, and then returned into her office.

James waited until they were out of the office and back in the car to ask, “How was it?”

Lars shrugged.

He turned on the car, putting it into reverse. “Did you need to schedule another appointment?”

“She already set it up for me.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to see her every Thursday from now on.” They were out of the parking lot and onto the road when Lars said in a soft voice, “You don’t have to take me next week.”

The car came to a red light. James made a complete stop and said, “I don’t mind.” He smiled, turning to Lars. “What else am I going to do around the house?”

Lars didn’t look back.

James’s smile waned.

The light soon turned green. James drove on, taking the long route home through the backstreets of San Rafael. Lars stayed quiet. Their bubble of actual communication burst too fast.

Fifteen minutes later, they parked in the driveway. James unbuckled himself and opened the car door, placing a foot on the concrete. He stopped when he saw Lars still fastened in his seat.

“Lars?”

Lars stared ahead, arms between his thighs.

James pulled his foot back in the car. He turned to him, facing him better.

The familiar, empty silence.

He watched the rise and fall of Lars’s chest, heard his even breathing in the confined, quiet space of his car.

Lars turned his head slightly away from him.

Then, Lars said, “I don’t like seeing you waiting there. It’s weird.”

He pulled back. The car seemed to grow in size, widening the space between them.

“Oh.”

“They’re my therapy sessions to begin with. My responsibility.”

James looked away. “I see.”

“I appreciate it, but… yeah. Anyway.” He heard the belt unbuckle, followed by the door opening on Lars’s side. “You coming?”

“Yeah.” He opened his car door too, his face burning like his eyes. “I’m coming.”

Walking back to the house proved daunting. In the space of an hour and a half, his body felt shackled, his back and shoulders and legs drawn to the floor, his knees wobbly and weak. He didn’t feel like eating, his stomach too twisted up. Lars seemed to not notice, too preoccupied with heating up leftovers and searching for the case of Diet Coke with lime.

Once Lars left for the guest room, James sequestered himself into his office, shutting the door for the first time since they arrived home.

“It’s almost like what we did with Phil,” Lars said, after his initial meeting with Dr. Conrad, back in Germany. It was also their first time alone since arriving. “Except, it’s different. It’s not as loose, or free form, but it’s open, and—I don’t know. Relieving, I guess. If that makes sense.”

“It does.”

Sitting on the bed, with James in a chair in front of him, Lars kept his attention down and fiddled with the late lunch Anja served him: salisbury steak with vegetables. It looked good, edible. Better than most hospital food James saw. 

Lars took a bite of his steak. He chewed on it for a bit. Swallowed. Rested the fork back onto the plate.

“It’s not bad,” Lars said.

James rose a hand and laid it on top of Lars’s knee.

Lars lifted his head.

Their eyes met.

Lars asked, “Think I’ll get used to it?”

He squeezed Lars’s knee.

James stared at the white wall of his office, his eyes red-rimmed. He sighed and slumped deeper into his chair, bringing his hands up to cover his face.

Into his palms, he asked aloud, “What are you doing?” He rubbed at his face and hissed, “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

That evening, James ate dinner after Lars. He checked his text messages at the kitchen table, while Lars watched TV in the other room. More well wishes from family members, Kirk, Rob, Pep, Jer, guys and girls from various bands, their managers, his sponsor brothers, his buddies from car shows and his car club, and others. He hadn’t bothered looking through either of Lars’s phones, let alone turning them on.

He busied himself with another itinerary list for tomorrow—messages to return, follow up with Kirk, call Torben and give an update—and finished sometime after Lars left the living room, with the TV still on. James turned it off on his way to the guest room.

Inside, he found Lars slipping on some black shorts in front of his open dresser, his suitcase laying at his base. James rapped on the door with his knuckles.

Lars didn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

He stepped into the room. “I was, uh, wondering.”

“About what?”

There was many things he was wondering about, in honesty. A bunch of questions he needed Lars to answer. Have you spoken to your father yet? Are you going to respond to any of the messages people left for you? Why are you still in the guest room? Do you want me to leave? Am I that much of a burden? What am I doing wrong, Lars? How can I fix this? Why don’t you want to talk to me?

“Is there anything you want to do tomorrow?”

Lars fished a black t-shirt out to the dresser. He shrugged, pushing the drawer back in.

“Anything at all.”

“I don’t know, I’m tired, okay?” He turned away from the dresser. “We’ll figure it out later.”

He stood at the door, watching Lars push the sheets back and slip into bed. And like how the day began, it ended the same way, with Lars curled up on his side, his back to the door.

James flipped the switch on the wall. All the light in the room turned off.

“Okay.” 

He turned around—

“Close the door, please.”

—and grit his teeth, closing the door behind him.

Sleep didn’t come as easy as he hoped. The bed was too big, the master bedroom too dark, and too quiet. After an hour of tossing and turning, James turned on one of the bedside lamps and then the TV. He flipped through the channels, settled on ESPN Classic and put the volume on low.

His attention soon drifted from the old Yankees vs. Red Sox game to the empty side of the bed. Lars’s side.

James scooted over and laid his head on the cold pillow, shutting his eyes. In a few minutes, he was out.


	4. Grey Divide

His phone wouldn’t stop ringing for almost two weeks. It seemed the second the press release hit their website, the whole world cared about Lars Ulrich again, which he knew wasn’t the case. James didn’t need to check PPM, their official fanclub forum, to know there were real fans who never stopped worrying about Lars. But all the constant interruptions destroyed any attempt he could’ve made talking with Lars, bonding with him—and possibly discussing the issues they still hadn’t addressed before Donington. The band took precedent over their lives again. And this time, James couldn’t avoid it. There was no Lars to hide behind.

“We can’t postpone it anymore,” Mark, one of their three Q-Prime managers, said to James last week. It was the day after Lars’s first meeting with Dr. Klein. He took the call in his office, while Lars sat in the living room eating the lunch he made. “It’s been two weeks since Download, and we’ve got Metal Hammer, Kerrang, even a few news media outlets asking what we’re going to do with the tour, if we’re getting a replacement drummer, the state of Lars’s condition and what happened—”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Exactly. Granted, it’s not like they’re banging down our door with pitchforks in their hands, so it could be much worse. You could have media outside your window right now. But they’re getting restless, and the fanbase is too. Kirk and Rob have done what they could. We’ve done what we could. But it’s time to act and do the two things we’ve postponed: post a press release, and do some interviews to assuage public interest. In a week or two, all this shit will die down, and you guys will be off the front page.”

James sighed, bowing over in his chair. He raked a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends. “Okay.” He slid it down the side of his face. “I’ll call Kirk and Rob. We’ll post it today, and I’ll start press duty tomorrow.”

“You sure? Kirk and Rob could start—”

“No. It’s…” James snorted. “Well, no, it _isn’t_ okay, but it is what it is, and I know what they want. They want to hear either from me or from Lars, and we both know Lars can’t do it. Not yet, anyway.”

“Yeah.”

“Expect a call from me in half an hour.”

By the time he emerged from his office, the press release was on the website, his stomach was in knots, and Lars was gone, his empty plate and empty soda can next to James’s cold burger on the living room table.

He found him outside in the back, sitting in one of the sun chairs, next to the tarp-covered pool. James took a seat in the sun chair next to him and stared out in the same direction Lars was.

Golden Gate Bridge. Remnants of this morning’s fog still lingered around its suspension cables and under its orange belly. Some filtered into the area of Crissy Field too.

“Am I fired now?”

James sharply turned his head to Lars. “What?”

“You posted the press release.”

“How’d you—”

“I heard your talk with Mark.” Lars eyed him from the side. “That was Mark’s voice, right?”

There was a part of him slapping himself stupid for not shutting the office door the whole way. The other part of him wanted to slap Lars, for even assuming what he did. “We canceled the rest of the tour. Getting a replacement drummer wasn’t an option.”

“Mm.” Lars looked back at the Bridge.

“Guess you know I’m doing press duty, too.”

“Since I can’t do it.”

He didn’t miss the bitterness in Lars’s tone. “ _Do_ you want to do some interviews?”

“If you think I can.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious, Lars. I’m only trying to—”

He stood up quick from the sun chair.

“Lars, wait.” James reached out for his wrist.

Lars jerked it away from his grip.

“Babe—”

“I’m going to go take a nap.”

James watched him head back into the house, leaving the sliding door open behind him. On his thigh, James’s hand clenched into a tight first, and he turned away, staring at the Bay Bridge instead of Golden Gate, grinding his teeth together slowly.

Two long interviews over the phone, back to back, filled up the rest of his afternoon that day, one of which was from David Fricke, a good friend and long-time writer for Rolling Stone. He thanked Mark in his head for setting up his first interview with someone he knew, who wasn’t going to immediately start with the difficult stuff first.

James answered David’s all of questions as best he could. He gave plenty of details to the ones he felt were safe, admitted “I don’t know” for the ones he couldn’t answer, and deflected the rest that pried too close to comfort—the ones that asked why Lars was in the hospital for so long, how was he doing now, when he was expected to come to the band, so on and so on. “That’s not my place to answer,” he’d say, and it wasn’t. David relented and moved on, but the other interviewer he had later wasn’t as kind. When the guy persisted, James said, “I’m not going to go into further details about that,” and when he kept prying, James had to fib to save face. “I have another call coming in, sorry,” and he hung up. Else, he would’ve snapped, chewed the guy’s head off and most likely, blurted out something he didn’t want the public to get wind of. And he couldn’t do that. Lars wouldn’t forgive him if he did.

The two interviews drained him of his energy. Talking on the phone wasn’t something he enjoyed to begin with, nor something he did quite frequently. So when he emerged from his office and found Lars eating at the kitchen table, he didn’t feel up for any sort of conversation, no matter how needed it was. He stayed quiet, cooked a TV dinner in the microwave, went up to the bedroom, ate there, and fell asleep. Lars didn’t seem to care, or notice even, when he left.

Mark had been right about the longevity of press duty. The first week left James exhausted, and way more appreciative of Lars’s ability to do three-to-four phone interviews, followed by more interviews with cameras present this time, a M&G, photoshoot, rehearsal, and a two-hour intense gig in front of thousands—all done in one day, and repeated twenty-four hours later.

He also came to appreciate how Lars could handle hearing the same dumb questions and saying the same stock answers over and over, as well as maintaining his composure when baited with an offensive, sometimes ridiculously stupid question. And the list of offensive, stupid questions were endless. “Was there ever a discussion of possible replacements?” “Who do you think would be a good replacement?” “Do you think Lars will rejoin Metallica?” “Can Lars still play drums?” It took all of his will power not to throw his phone into the trash can.

The interviews thankfully lessened in frequency and intensity during this week. There was only so much they could milk out of a straight-to-the-point press statement, and only so much information they could get out of him. The facts were simple. Lars suffered a really bad panic attack en route to Donington. It caused him to undergo some extended treatment at a hospital in Germany, and at the end of it, he decided to step away from Metallica for the time being, in order to recuperate from the physical damage he sustained over the last 20-some years playing countless gigs around the world, like his rotary cuff injury from the Black Album days. But there were enough gaps and open-ended questions in the statement for the journalists to play with. Thus came the prying questions, and the stupid questions.

But the phone calls weren’t all interview-based. Occasionally, he’d receive a couple from his older brothers and sister, asking how he was doing, if he needed anything, any sort of help. Then Pepper, Kirk, Rob, his AA sponsor brothers, the guys from the Beatniks, his buddies from car shows, all offering support and helping hands. There were also calls from Lars’s family and friends: his aunt and uncle, his PA Steve, Sean Penn, Peter Coyote, Molly and Torben. They asked how he was doing, how Lars was doing too, offered the same support and helping hands as his family and friends did—and, if it was possible: “Can I talk to Lars?”

When James tried to give the phone to him though, Lars was either asleep, or said, without even looking at him, “I’ll call back later.” Or, “I’m not in the mood.” Or, “Not now.”

James found himself twisting or squeezing his hand around the phone every time he turned away.

In the mist of all this talking-on-the-phone chaos, Lars remained silent with him. He didn’t bother James for anything. And all the interviews sucked up James’s time, else he would’ve been the proactive one and bugged Lars.

What he lacked in time though, James made up for in observations, and what he found watching Lars concerned him. Over the two weeks, he found Lars in the same spots over and over. Watching TV in the living room. Sleeping in the guest room. Cooking and eating in the kitchen. Sitting outside, next to the pool, staring at the skyline.

They really had to talk.

He missed his first opportune moment last Thursday, when Lars prepared to go to Dr. Klein’s office. But Mark had scheduled an interview around the time Lars was set to come home, and he couldn’t get out of it.

Today, though, he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice, and told Mark to schedule his three interviews in the early morning. James felt optimistic after hearing from Mark, “These are the last ones I’ve got lined up for you. You’re pretty much free after this.”

“We can only hope.”

“Right.”

The interviews went by fast too. He finished a little past ten in the morning, giving him forty minutes to dress properly, eat something better than the piece of toast he had earlier on, and ask Lars permission.

“Hey Lars?”

Across the table, Lars sipped his cup of coffee. His attention laid on a barely eaten plain bagel, sitting on a small plate in front of him. “What?”

“Can I take you to Dr. Klein’s today?”

Lars flicked his eyes up. They glared. “I told you—”

“It’s your responsibility, I know. But I won’t go in, I promise. I just need to get out of here for a little bit, you know? Get some fresh air.”

“Then wait until I get back, or go for a walk.” Lars stood up, picking up his plate. He walked to the sink and pulled out the garbage cabinet, dumping the rest of the bagel in there. “You don’t need me to get some fresh air.”

Under the table, both his hands clenched into fists on his thighs—and then flattened out when he sighed, looking away from Lars, down to his bowl of Cheerios.

He heard Lars’s feet pad out of the kitchen.

James leaned back into his chair and sighed.

“I was hoping we’d spend time together,” he said to himself.

He stared at his bowl, waiting for a response. Something.

Nothing.

James leaned forward and picked up his spoon.

He ate a few, meager spoonfuls, occasionally stirring the small o’s around and around, soaking them in more milk.

“Hey.”

James looked to the side.

In the doorway to the kitchen stood Lars, hands shoved into his pockets. He pulled a hand out and unfurled the palm.

Car keys.

James pushed away from the table.

Looking him in the eye, James walked to him and took the keys into his hand.

Lars pushed his own hand back into his pocket.

They stood in silence, a little gap between them.

Then, James bent at the waist, and pressed his lips to Lars’s cheek.

There was no smile on Lars’s face when he pulled away. But he didn’t look angry, or annoyed, or that tired even. He just looked…

Lars turned away. “C’mon. We’re going to be late.”

James lingered behind for a bit, staring at the back of his head.

Sad. Lars looked sad.

They took the long way to Dr. Klein’s, weaving through the old roads and long trails that hugged the ocean side, where big trees and lots of tourists littered the sidewalks, and old buildings stuck out against the new ones.

And for the first time since arriving home, they drove to music, some pop radio station playing today’s Billboard hits. He kept the volume low, didn’t recognize anything until Green Day came on. He tapped his fingers on the wheel to the beat, and at the next red light, he caught in the corner of his vision Lars’s head nodding along. James turned his head a little and caught a better view of Lars, his lips mouthing the lyrics, his hands tapping along to the drumbeat on his thighs. A sight James loved seeing. A sight he missed lately.

Lars didn’t do it again when the song ended and another came on, but James tucked the image away in his mind. His reminder that his Lars was there, deep down.

As promised, he didn’t follow Lars inside the office. He waited in the car for the hour with his seat reclined, listening to some music for a bit, but he turned the car off out of fear of draining the battery. The rest of the time, James dozed off and on, staring at the sky through the car sunroof, his mind drifting off into good summer memories. Of he and Lars, back in the 80s, drinking beer and eating fast food at Malibu Beach, then sneaking into country clubs late at night and swimming in their pools. Or when he and Lars, back in the 90s, enjoyed an off-day from the tour with sunbathing, shopping and sex in Nice, a surprise Lars didn’t see coming. And then there was last year, where he and Lars walked in Tivoli, then kissed by the same tree they did back in ‘84. This time, James remembered it well. That kiss, and the way he said to Lars—

The car door jerked open on the other side.

James startled, struggling up into a sitting position.

Lars jumped in and slammed the door. “Drive.”

He frowned, reaching for the reclining lever on the side of his seat.

Lars yanked the seatbelt across his chest, shoving it into its holder. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking out the window—a thick gleam in his eyes.

With his seat up again, James asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Just _drive_.”

He gave Lars a longer look, listening to his heavy breathing, and then turned to start the engine.

The drive home wasn’t as light-hearted as the drive there. Lars sat in silence. James didn’t try to spark a conversation. He knew better.

The instant he parked the car in the driveway, Lars unbuckled and left, the door swinging shut. James watched him storm into the house, the front door left wide open in his wake.

When he entered the house, he passed by the guest room and found the door shut. His hands itched to try the knob, to check and see if it was locked—and if not, to peek inside, see how he was doing, ask him, “Hey, what’s wrong? What happened?” And maybe Lars would tell him why. Maybe Lars would let him in. Maybe he’d let James hold him and maybe, just maybe, Lars would ask, “Stay with me?”

James’s fingers touched the gold knob.

He looked right at the door.

_Do it._

_Go to him._

_He needs you._

His eyes shut.

One by one, his fingers unfurled and gradually skipped off the knob.

He sat in the living room, in silence, staring at the blank TV screen. The remote was in reach, right next to him on the couch, but he didn’t feel like watching anything. Didn’t feel compelled enough. Couldn’t think of anything to distract him for the rest of the day.

For once, he wished there was an interview to do.

Eventually, the blank screen, and silence, was too much to deal. James went to his office, picked up the phone he swore he wasn’t going to use today, walked outside and down the steps to the backyard pool area, and dialed in the first number he could think of.

“This is Pepper.”

“Hey, it’s James.”

“Hey! How’s it going?”

“It’s going alright. You?”

“About the same. Just got this new jukebox for my bar.”

James chuckled. “Jukebox?”

“Hell yeah! For karaoke, man. We host it every Friday night. We used to have a really good one, but there were these fucking idiots last week…”

He stayed mostly quiet the whole conversation, listening to Pepper ramble about this and that, how COC was doing, how Down was doing, where his next gig was next week, his family. It felt good, listening to someone else talk—willing to talk, and wanting to talk, to him.

Two hours later, Pepper hung up. James returned back into the house, the heaviness he felt before now gone. He headed into the kitchen, making himself a cheese and salami sandwich, and then settled into the living room to watch whatever what was on.

When dinner time arrived, James cooked some Kraft mac and cheese, and poured some lemonade into two glasses. He served Lars’s bowl on one side of the table, then headed over to the guest room.

“Lars?” He knocked on the door. “Your dinner’s on the table.”

Nothing.

“Come get it before it’s cold, okay?”

He didn’t wait for a response. James went back to the kitchen, took his bowl and lemonade and ate in the living room, watching more TV.

Lars finally emerged by the time James finished eating. His hair stuck up in various places, his clothes rumpled, and his eyes bloodshot.

He passed by the couch, muttering, “Hey.”

“Hi.”

A few minutes later, Lars came out of the kitchen with his food on a tray. He passed behind the couch again, heading back to the guest room, and James ignored the urge to stop and invite Lars to sit with him. He was too tired, too exhausted from the last two weeks. One more day of silence between them didn’t matter. Tomorrow was another day.

He scraped at the bowl with his spoon, licking away the residual cheese sauce he gathered. The movie on the TV ended as he drained the last of his lemonade. He placed the empty cup into his empty bowl, rising to his feet—

“James?”

He turned to the left.

Lars still stood at the mouth of the hallway, holding his tray of food. The light from the TV casted heavy shadows on his face, turned his skin uncomfortably pale, and made his eyes shine.

James faced Lars fully. His own shadow fell across half of Lars.

“Yes?”

Lars’s lips parted. “Ah…” Slowly shut. Opened again. Forming a word. Struggling for it.

His chest swelled, his next breath waiting to be released.

Then, Lars shut his eyes. Curled his arms inward, his chin falling to his chest. And turned around. Turned away, his back to him, again.

“Good night James.”

James’s shoulders slumped.

He watched Lars disappear down the hallway.

When he heard the guest room door shut, James finally said, “Night.”


	5. In Fiction

He woke up the next morning to find the guest room door open, and no Lars inside.

“Lars?”

Not in the living room, or the kitchen either. Only one place left, and there, James found him, sitting on a sun chair and staring at Golden Gate again, the early morning fog submerging the Bay into a thick sea of grey. He was dressed in sneakers, running shorts and Nike top, arms on his thighs and his back curved like a comma.

He stepped outside onto the patio, the early morning chill rising goosebumps on his bare arms and legs. He closed the sliding door as gently as possible behind him, and padded barefoot down the stairs to the poolside.

An ocean wind picked up. The umbrellas on the sun tables swayed with the trees lining the sides of their outside area. James shivered and crossed his arms over his chest, coming closer to Lars.

Then, Lars stood up.

James stopped, a foot away from Lars’s chair.

Lars turned and walked past him, without looking his way.

He stared at the empty sun chair.

Behind him, he heard the sliding door open and quickly shut.

James looked up. A grey San Francisco greeted him, the sun unable to push through the thick clouds swallowing the sky and the equally thick fog swallowing their home. Even Golden Gate seemed to drown in all this grey, her bright orange towers turning dull, her body disappearing away, piece by piece.

When he came back inside, Lars sat at the kitchen table the same way he sat outside, a unripe banana in hand.

He locked the sliding door and walked past Lars, out of the kitchen and to the stairs.

James laid back in bed, under the covers, arms behind his head. He stared out the window, at the fog. The sound of his own breathing filled the room.

Soon, he let his eyes drift close for a little while.

Close to midday, the fog lifted, and the house stayed silent. He found Lars in the living room when he came back down, curled up against the couch corner, his legs tucked under him, still dressed the same.

He approached the couch, stopped, and then turned back for the kitchen.

Against his judgement, he made two turkey sandwiches. The one with mustard, he laid to the side. The one with mayo, he ate alone at the table.

When finished, he picked up the plate and walked into the living room.

Lars hadn’t moved.

James placed the plate on the table in front of him.

His hands itched to touch as he passed Lars by. But he resisted the urge and headed back upstairs for a needed shower and change of clothes.

An hour later, he descended the stairs, found the couch empty, and of the half of the sandwich eaten.

James walked over to the guest room, peeking inside.

Lars sat on the bed shirtless, facing the door, his attention on the floor. His shirt laid crumpled on the ground, next to his sneakers.

He came into the doorway and leaned against it, one arm on the frame.

The silence.

This Lars.

James sighed.

Lars looked up.

They stared.

All the questions he could ask. What’s going on? What’s happening to us? What’s wrong with you? What problem do you have with me? Why won’t you tell me? Why can’t I tell you…

Then, Lars said, “I went running today.”

He paused for too long, asking, “How was it?”

“S’okay.”

“Where’d you go?”

Lars shrugged. “Somewhere.”

That silence again. Dragging them along. Dragging time.

He fought that silence, asking, “Did you like your sandwich?”

“Yeah.”

“You… didn’t eat it all.”

“Not that hungry.”

“Oh.”

Lars’s attention went downcast again. Down to the floor.

He was losing to that silence.

He could fight it. He could finally ask, What else do you want from me? What else can I do to help? He could finally tell him, I’ve done everything for you. I’ve waited for you. And you’re not there. I’m doing everything and you’re not there. You’re not giving back to me anything of what I’m giving you and I can’t take it anymore.

James leaned back from the doorway, pushing off the frame.

And just as he turned around: “James?”

He looked back.

Lars stood up from the bed.

James turned to face him.

He stayed still as Lars approached him.

An ache grew in his chest, watching Lars’s arms open, feeling them slide around his waist. Watching and feeling his cheek press against his chest, his eyes shutting. Hearing the deep sigh Lars released through his nose, its heat crossing over collarbones.

James closed his eyes.

He kept his hands to his sides.

When the arms finally let him go, and he felt the weight of Lars’s head leave, James turned and walked away.

In his office, James stared out the window, his feet propped up on his desk, crossed at the ankles. It was too bright outside. Too sunny and blue.

His chest still ached.

_He deserved that._

The ghost of Lars’s arms around his waist. His breath on his skin.

_You_ know _he deserved that._

James pressed his palms together. His fingers twined.

He brought the clasped hands to his mouth, closing his eyes.

_You’ve been there since the accident, since Germany, and all he’s done is treat you like shit. Push you away. Reject everything you work hard at protecting—the band, himself, for nothing. Nothing._

The knuckles pressed against his lips.

_He doesn’t need you. He doesn’t want you._

The clasped hands shook.

_He doesn’t love you anymore._

James’s face scrunched up. He breathed hard through his nose.

_You did the right thing._

His next breath was wet.

_You did the right thing._

He bowed his neck and unfurled his hands, covering his face with his sweaty palms.

The next day, the hours dragged on and on. Same with the day after that. And the day after that.

Every morning since that one, he found Lars sitting outside, staring at the morning fog, at the Bridge. Every morning, he left him alone. He stopped making him food. He stopped checking up on him.

Time went too slow. The days went too long. He’d lay in bed at night, wondering when it’d be over—when it’d all finally end. When he’d be free of this, and move on.

He had options of ending it early. One phone call, and he’d have the next flight out to Pepper’s, one of his brothers, his sister. One phone call, and he could stay at one of his sponsor brother’s. Even Torben would let him in. He could leave at anytime. He could go anywhere, and not tell anyone. He had that power. That control. But James had to see this ‘til the end. He invested too much time and energy, too many years and too much of himself, to let it all die that quickly.

Then came Thursday.

James didn’t find Lars outside that morning, but in the guest room instead. He lay on the bed in his running outfit, curled on his side, back to the door.

He left him alone and went about his day. Ate breakfast, watched TV, checked his voicemail, returned a few phone calls, did some exercise, watched a little more TV.

A little past noon, he walked back downstairs to make lunch. He glanced at the guest room for a second, noticing the door still open—and feet on the bed.

James walked over and found Lars still on the bed.

He stepped in and said, “You’re late.”

“I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“Did you call?”

“For what?”

“Did you call her office and say you’re not coming?”

Lars snorted.

James threw his hands up. “Fine. Whatever.” He turned back to the door.

Behind him, Lars mumbled, “It’s not like it’s helping anyway.”

“That’s for certain.”

Then he left for the kitchen.

On the countertop, James made a tuna sandwich, piling on the lettuce and tomato. From the corner of his vision, he noticed Lars walk into the kitchen doorway, staring at him. Watching.

James placed the second piece of bread on top, pressing his hand down.

Lars whispered, “What’d you say?”

He sliced the sandwich in half.

He reached up to a cabinet and pulled out a plate.

“James.”

“You heard me.”

He went to another cabinet, searching for a bag of chips. Nothing. Second cabinet, nothing.

“Where’s the chips?”

“Fuck you.”

James turned and caught the ends of Lars’s arms and legs, disappearing beyond the kitchen doorway.

He stomped over, and in that doorway, looked at the back of Lars’s head and gave into the temptation to shout, “Fuck you too!”

Lars shouted back over his shoulder, “You’re an asshole!”

“You’re one to talk.”

Door slam.

He heard a muffled “FUCK!” coming down the hallway.

James’s fists shook at his sides.

The rest of the day, he didn’t see Lars. When he checked the guest room door around dinner time, he turned the knob to left, and found it locked. So he made food for one, brought it upstairs, ate and went to bed soon after.

Friday morning, there was Lars again, sitting on that sun chair, staring at Golden Gate and the fog, dressed in the same outfit he wore last night.

James made his coffee and drank it, watching Lars from the sliding door window. It was murkier outside. Darker greys. Thicker fog. Weather forecasts he caught on last night’s news predicted a chance of rain today by midday.

He finished his cup and rinsed it out in the sink.

When he looked back up, Lars wasn’t sitting anymore.

James laid the cup down.

Lars was standing.

His back straightened.

Lars was… walking forward.

Walking towards the balcony of their backyard.

His hands grabbed the sink’s edge.

The overlook of their home. The selling point of why Lars wanted to build here, in this place. Why James wasn’t too thrilled about it.

“We’re on top of a cliff,” James said, years ago, back in 1990.

“Because it’s a mountain, dumbass.”

“Great.”

“Oh stop it.” Lars grinned, nudging his side. “You should be happy. We won’t have any neighbors bothering us, there’s enough empty land nearby to go make that ranch you wanted…” He threw his arms out, gesturing to the entire San Francisco skyline. “And look at that view.”

James stared at Golden Gate. The fog. Lars.

Look at that view.

Lars stopped at the balcony’s edge. His hands rested on top of the railing.

James’s hands clutched the sink’s edge.

An ocean wind picked up, swaying the umbrellas on the sun tables and the trees, and brushing the top of Lars’s thinning hair.

His chest ached. His stomach twisted up.

Lars stood there. And stared.

Didn’t move.

Then, he turned. Slightly.

James held his breath.

Lars’s elbows bended.

His knees followed.

One leg lifted up—

“Shit.”

He pushed off the sink’s edge, rushing out the kitchen, to the backyard, shoving open the sliding door and scrambling down the steps. He found Lars’s back to him, both his legs dangling over the edge, his hands clutching the back of the railing.

“Lars!”

That body jumped. Lars looked over his shoulder.

His arms snapped around his torso and lifted up.

From this close, he saw and heard Lars’s shocked gasp.

He yanked him clear off the balcony and bear-carried him away. Pain shot up his back, to his hips and legs.

Lars soon struggled in his grip, hands slapping against his chest, legs kicking in the air. “Fuck! What the fuck are you doing James? Let me go! _Let me go!_ ” Fists beat his sternum. The legs kicked wilder. He almost lost his grip. “ _James!_ Let me the fuck go right now!”

His arms stayed locked around him, until they were at the very beginning of the pool area, close to the steps. With a grunt, he dropped Lars to the ground, onto his feet.

He shook his arms out, looked at Lars—

_SLAP._

“Shit!” James rose a hand to his burning cheek.

When he looked at Lars again, he found his fists at his sides, his cheeks red, his lips in a snarl—and his eyes wet.

“I can’t believe you.” Lars shook his head. “You, of all people.”

James dropped his hand from his cheek. He pointed at him. “You have _no_ business pulling a stunt—” Pointed at the balcony. “—like that.”

“I was sitting.”

“It’s a cliff.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You could’ve fallen off!”

“I’ve been doing it for days, James.” Lars stepped in. No gap between them. “Days. And you weren’t there. I could’ve fallen off yesterday, and you wouldn’t have seen it. You wouldn’t have known about it until God knows fucking when. Then it would all be over and you’d be free, just like I know you want. You wouldn’t have to baby me, you wouldn’t have to monitor me, feed me, clothe me, do all my interviews, make all my phone calls—it’d be gone, and you’d have your fucking life back. But that’s not going to happen, because I’d never, _ever_ do something as stupid as that, and you _know_ it.”

James looked him in the eye.

Another ocean breeze passed between them.

He took a step back.

“Things change.”

James turned his back to him.

He walked up the steps to the patio. His hand touched the sliding door handle.

From below, he heard Lars whisper, “James…”

A sad, pathetic whisper of his name.

The ache returned in his chest, traveling to his heart.

James clenched his teeth, turning his head to the side.

He squeezed his hand around the door’s handle—and he pushed it wide open, heading back inside, slamming it loud and hard behind him.


	6. Collapse and Crush

He didn’t see Lars the rest of the day. Whether he was in his room or gone outside again, James didn’t know, and forced himself not to find out.

His mind raced that night, laying in the bed he and Lars once shared, in this house they called home. But it hadn’t felt like a home since they came back. It turned into a million-dollar time prison, trapping the two of them in a stagnant present-past, while the rest of the world moved on toward a future. And he had no escape plan—not one that involved Lars coming with.

“Shit.”

James rolled to his side.

He came face-to-face with Lars’s old pillow.

His hand reached up. Fingers skipped down the fabric.

James grabbed the ends. He tugged it across the mattress, pressing it against his chest.

With his nose against the fabric, he took a deep breath in.

It smelled like cotton. Not Lars.

He pushed his face into it.

It wasn’t Lars anymore.

His other arm wrapped around it, bringing it with him as he rolled onto his back.

Not his Lars anymore.

The fabric muffled his shaky, soft, “Fuck.”

There was once a time he thought the worst of their relationship was over. When the cameras left and the therapy ended, they tried again, and though many long months passed to reach the goal they wanted, they did it. Lars became his Lars again, and he became his James—a stronger, better James, ready to treat him better, love him better, like he didn’t before. Properly, this time. Treasuring moments. Treasuring him. But old habits arose. Lars went out too much. Galas, premieres, shows, openings, mingling with the elite, “you don’t like this stuff anyway, it’s okay, I’ll see you later,” and didn’t come home in time. Didn’t tell him where he was, when he was coming back. And James started doing the same thing. Car shows, club hangouts, leaving out of town abruptly or unannounced, “you're not into this anyway, it’s okay, bye.” Repeating all his mistakes, save the alcohol and the promiscuous sex, but he couldn’t deal. He couldn’t have any part of his past life again.

So, he called for the Break while on tour. Lars protested, and fought, and argued, and said, “No, we can fix this, we can work this out,” and when nothing changed, he finally gave in. Lars moved out of the hotel room, found other accommodations and they went their separate ways privately, while working together publicly, for the time being. No fuss. No fanfare.

Then Donington happened.

James pulled the pillow away from his face to his belly.

He stared up at the ceiling.

It might’ve been the Break that caused all of this to happen. The thought occurred to him multiple times. On the way to the airport. On the plane. In the cab ride to the hospital. In the waiting room. In Lars’s room, watching Lars sleep. He had all the signs, once Dr. Conrad explained what the signs were. He should’ve known. Should’ve stopped it from escalating to this point.

It might’ve been inevitable too. After all they went through, what Lars went through, it made sense. But he never would’ve thought anything at this level, this extremity.

This amount of change, all in one day.

He looked down at the pillow.

Both his hands squeezed it.

It all changed.

Everything changed.

A day, it changed everything.

James threw the pillow off the bed. It thumped against the wall and skipped a little on the floor, coming to a rest at the foot of Lars’s dresser.

He turned his back to it and reached up for the light switch.

In the morning, thirty minutes past eight, James came to Lars’s room, dressed in jeans and an old t-shirt. And he found Lars in the same outfit from yesterday, sitting on the bed hunched over, massaging fingers over his forehead in slow strokes. He caught tell-tale signs of dark circles around his eyes, and heavy bags on his cheekbones, which should’ve been an obvious enough warning not to go through with this, not yet. Think over it some more. Give it time. Wait.

_I’ve waited long enough._

“I’m leaving.”

Lars’s hand stopped moving. It flopped away, his head turning slow to the door.

Bloodshot eyes. Pale skin.

He looked so tired.

“When?”

Sounded tired.

“Today.”

Exhausted. Sad.

Lars’s focus drifted down. His head soon followed. “Are you staying with someone?”

Defeated.

He ignored the returning, annoying chest pain and said, “Hotel. No one needs to know yet.”

Lars gave a tiny nod.

James watched his eyes shine. The way they blinked slow. Closing a little too long. Closing longer than the last.

The chest pain travelled up to his throat.

He flattened his lips into a thin line.

His breathing grew long and heavy.

Lars turned his head, down to the floor at his feet.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He watched Lars’s Adam’s Apple bob, and barely heard his next whisper. “I’m sorry.”

James’s vision blurred.

His head felt heavy.

He opened his mouth, took a step forward—and slowly closed it, taking a step back.

As he turned to leave the room, he caught Lars bowing over, pressing his forehead to his knees.

One suitcase. That was all it took to pack the essentials, and what little other trinkets he wanted to take with him, for now. Once this passed over, and they both had time to move on from it, he’d come back to retrieve the rest. Maybe even negotiate with Lars on a what, where and when with potential movers.

He picked a hotel far enough from the house, close enough to HQ. Check-in time was at two. With the time now close to ten, he still had a bit of wait between leaving the house and settling into his new arrangements. But he couldn’t stay here any longer. The sooner he left, the better it’d be, for both of them.

The temptation to have one last meal here lingered with him as he walked down the steps, carrying his bag. The urge to leave won out, when he saw Lars sitting in the kitchen, elbows on the table, clasped hands pressed to his forehead.

His feet crunched loud on the carpet. Squeaked on the kitchen linoleum floor.

Lars didn’t move.

James gripped his bag’s handle better.

All this silence.

He watched Lars’s lips part. Heard the stick of saliva.

“If you go…” Lars opened his eyes. “Is that it?”

_Yes._

James watched Lars turn his head to him.

Wet cheeks. Wet eyes. Pale skin and heavy bags and black circles and _that’s not Lars. That is not Lars. Look at him._ Look _at him._

“Last chance,” James said.

Lars’s eyes widened. His hands unfurled. The chair skidded loud on the floor, turning his whole body to James. “What?”

“Talk to me.”

“About?”

“Everything.”

Lars recoiled into his seat. His attention drifted away from James’s face to somewhere on James’s chest. His hands squeezed his knees. His mouth contorted, moved, shaped a word.

The struggle on Lars’s face ended with Lars’s long sigh.

“I can’t.”

James pivoted on his heel and left the kitchen. He grabbed the keys to his car on the rack, opened the side door and hit the red button for the garage door to open. It whined loud, sliding back on the ceiling.

He popped open the trunk and walked around the car, jerking the back open and throwing his bag in.

A hand slammed down and shut the trunk closed.

Lars slid it off, leaving finger smudges on the chrome.

“Come back inside,” he said.

“No.”

“James.”

“Get away from my car.”

“Fuck’s sake, will you wait?”

“What for?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Unless you have something to say.”

Lars pursed his lips, his head turning away. His hands went to his hips, and he walked away from the car, down the driveway.

A good distance from James and the car, Lars turned back around.

James faced him better.

He watched him shift on his feet. Squeeze his hips, shake his head and then: “I want to move on, okay?” He licked his lips and said softer, “I want to move on.”

Lars’s hands fell from his hips. His arms hung loose at his sides.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to _think_ about it anymore. That’s all I do now. That’s what this _thing_ makes me do. I’m sick of it. I’m tired of it. It’s taken over every fucking aspect of my life, and I just…” Both of Lars’s hands turned into shaking fists. “I want things back to how they were. Before all this. Before Germany.”

“So you pushed me away.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Then _why?_ ”

“I didn’t…” That struggle, back on Lars’s face. It lasted shorter than the other, Lars giving in with a sigh and, “I don’t know.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

James uncrossed his arms. _So am I._

He turned his back to Lars, circling around the car to the driver’s seat.

The engine roared to life inside the garage. He put the car into reverse and headed down the driveway, onto their lone street.

When he put it into drive, James looked up and found Lars standing on the sidewalk, in front of the house, embodying every sense of the word broken.

“What else do you want from me?” Lars whispered. “Uh?” His voice cracked. “What do you want?”

His hand squeezed the wheel. 

The chest pain consumed his whole torso.

“You.”

Lars’s hands went palms up. “But I’m _here_ , James.” Two tears fell down his cheeks. “I’m right here.”

The sight almost made him turn off the engine. Almost made him get out of the car.

He took his foot off the brake.

“No, Lars.” James shook his head. “The real you died in Germany.”

He forced himself to look away, stepping onto the gas. He avoided looking at the rear view mirror and the side mirrors as he drove away, down the long, winding road to his hotel.


	7. Not In Rivers, But In Drops

The hotel was quieter than the house. Smaller in size, duller in color. It smelled different. Felt different. It cemented into his head that this was real, this was it, here he was, out and free, and never going back. He should’ve felt better by the changes. Lighter, maybe. Instead, when he parked the car in the lot, he found it hard to move. His arms turned into dead blocks of wood. A hundred pounds and more seemed to fall onto his back, and his legs dragged with each step because of it, struggling to the lobby, through the lobby, into the elevator and down the hall, to his room. By the time he flopped onto the bed, all he wanted to do was sleep. But it didn’t come. He lay on his back, stared at the ceiling, and the sleep wouldn’t come. His body said, no, this isn’t right. His heart agreed. His mind usurped them both, in logic, in reasoning—you can’t go back, it’s over, you’re through. And yet, there he lay, wide awake, for hours. Hours.

Watching TV didn’t shut off his mind. Walking the hotel area didn’t either. He thought of a drive, but he already did that earlier when he left the house, taking each and every back-road he knew by memory through Marin County, until he reached finally Novato—and then kept going, and going, stopping for gas once, and ending hours later, in the hotel parking lot.

There were ways of escape. He had options. Leaving somewhere. Calling someone. Anyone. But the chance they’d ask about Lars was high. The chance they’d ask for Lars to come on the phone was a lesser threat. But it was a threat enough for James to ignore the temptation and keep his phone far away from him, on the other side of the room.

He tossed and turned throughout the afternoon. At night, he forced himself to buy room service, and scarfed down the steak and fries they delivered, not even tasting them.

Showering provided no reprieve either. His mind drifted into forbidden territories, of memories that flashed across like snapshots. Bathing Lars after Germany. Bathing together in Italy. Spending time in Copenhagen. Surprising Lars in Paris. That special bracelet. Their first kiss.

The images jumped through time. They mingled together and made no sense. He pressed a hand to his forehead and leaned against the wet linoleum, the room dizzying and the floor giving way under his feet. It made zero sense thinking about this—any of this. It was time to move on. Time to give it up.

That Lars was dead.

Dead and gone and never coming back.

_But I’m_ here _, James._

He looked up. His hand slid down his face.

Lars, standing on the sidewalk, palms up as if begging. Pleading no. Stop. Don’t go.

Those sad, weary eyes.

_I’m right here._

James slammed the back of his head against the wall.

Soon after, one of his fists collided with it too.

In the meager sleep that followed his shower, he suffered through a dream of return. Of the house becoming part of the mountain, thick trees that covered the sky, a cliff that fell into a depth deeper than the last, and Lars, as thin and colorless and empty as the fog itself, sitting on the balcony, his sickly hands squeezing the railing.

He woke up when Lars's hands let go.

It haunted him in the darkness of his room when he woke up, running his palms over his sweaty face.

It came back when he fell asleep, in more detail this time. More terrifying.

Morning light arrived when he woke again. He sat against the headboard, the sheets bunched around his waist, and tried to figure it out—tried to understand why this, what was the point. The last time he had reoccurring dreams, Montreal was the source. That made sense. This didn’t.

The image of Lars on the sidewalk came to mind. His stomach twisted up, and then, the answer was obvious.

James stared at the wall. He caught some of his reflection in the TV screen.

_I have done nothing wrong._

_He doesn’t need me._

_My Lars is dead._

Pain shot across his chest. His fingers dug into the sheets.

James took a deep breath in. On the exhale, he shut his eyes and pushed himself out of bed.

The breakfast didn’t go down well. His stomach continued to twist and churn. His chest pain refused to stop.

He came back to a silent room.

That silence again.

Watching TV wasn’t going to beat it back this time. Mindless chatter of talking heads wasn’t going to help. It wasn’t real. They weren’t actually there. No one was.

No one knew anything.

He walked to the other side of the room and fished out his phone.

There on the screen, he read two new texts. One from his sister. One from Kirk. They asked how he was doing. What was going on.

_How’s Lars?_

He picked up his car keys and left the phone on the dresser.

A needed drive. A needed, long drive, anywhere, his mind elsewhere as his hands steered the wheel and his feet worked the pedals. The winding road gave him a comfort different from music. He didn’t have to entertain anyone. He wasn’t under the scrutiny of lights or cameras. It was him, and the road, and his car, and that was it. Him in control. Him able to go anywhere he wished, anytime. Music gave him abandonment. Driving gave him freedom.

It couldn’t free him of the images though. Of Lars asking him not to end it. The way he looked, leaving the room with his things. And that night before Download. Lars heading to Denmark. Him staying in Portugal. Agreeing to meet for lunch in England. He didn’t even say goodbye. Didn’t even see Lars off.

_It’s okay,_ he thought then. _I’ll see him tomorrow._

_I’ll make it up to him._

_It’ll be okay._

James took the first exit he saw.

He veered into some lot and parked at an angle, shutting off the engine.

His fist connected with the wheel.

Then the other.

And again.

He pressed his face into his palms and let loose a guttural shout.

The sun drifted away from the sky and night took over by the time he felt ready to return. He parked closer than last time, taking the side entrance into the hotel.

On the way up, his body curved into an elevator corner.

James walked to his room, slipped his keycard in and opened the door.

Hallway light spilled in. His long shadow took up the floor.

He stared at the phone on his dresser.

The door shut too loud behind him. Darkness again.

James felt out the wall for a switch. When he found it, light returned, and he found himself closer to the dresser. Closer to the phone.

_Have to tell them sometime._

He walked forward—and frowned.

A red light flashed on the phone’s upper right corner.

James picked up the phone and brought it with him to the bed. Opening it up, he found three voicemails waiting for him.

He dialed 1 and brought the phone to his ear.

_You have 3 unheard messages._

_First unheard message._

Silence.

Just silence.

Five seconds later: _End of message. To delete this message…_

He deleted it and moved to the next.

Silence, again.

James sighed.

When he heard nothing else, he lifted the phone away—

“James.”

He pressed it back to his ear.

Heavy breathing.

A long sigh crackled over the line.

More breathing.

Then: “Fuck.”

_End of message. To delete this message…_

He skipped to the last one.

There was no silence this time. “James. It’s me. I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I just…”

James sat up better.

He heard a tell-tale sniffle.

Then another.

“I had to tell you—” His voice cracked. “—you’re right.”

James felt his insides collapse.

Lars sniffled again, and said, “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I’m so, _so_ sorry, James.”

A long, quivering sigh.

More sniffles.

James’s vision blurred.

He didn’t recognize this voice. It was weak, and small, and pitiful, and not Lars, not his Lars, no, Lars would never—he’d never, ever sound like this. He’d never—

“I’m not strong enough.”

Heavier breathing. Another sniffle.

“I’m not you.”

Tears fell down James’s cheeks, hearing Lars’s soft, broken sob.

“I wish I could.” A hiccup. A sobbing breath. “I wish...”

Silence.

_End of message. To delete—_

James pulled the warm phone from his ear.

He clicked the end button.

The time on the voicemail read: 6:23PM.

His clock on the phone read: 7:29PM.

When he entered the car, it was 7:31PM.

James parked it in the driveway at 8:02PM.

He fumbled with the house keys longer than he liked, and then opened the front door wide, rushing into a cold, dark, quiet house.

“Lars?”

The guest room was empty. The living room as well.

“Lars?” Kitchen too. Thankfully not outside either.

James rushed up the stairs two steps at a time, hand on the railing. “Lars!”

At the top, he caught the bedroom door ajar and pushed it open.

Like the rest of the house, all the lights were off. But the curtains of their large windows were pushed back, and the waxing moon’s light spilled into the room.

He found the bed unmade, some clothes, books and hygiene products scattered across on the floor, a picture frame face-first on the nightstand—

He froze.

A small, shaking body, wearing his own fuchsia robe, huddled in the darkest corner of the bedroom, with strong arms strangling the legs, and a forehead pressed to the knees.

James’s vision blurred again.

“Lars…”

Slowly, Lars lifted his head.

Wet cheeks. Bloodshot eyes. Hair sticking up all over, like it hadn’t been washed in days. Paler skin, somehow, and—

“James?”

That sad, weak, little voice.

“Is that you?”

James nodded.

He heard Lars’s breathing pick up. Watched his eyes squint, his lips move and tremble, his head slowly shake no.

“Please…”

James stepped forward.

Lars whispered, “Don’t go away again.”

James bent down.

From up close, he witnessed Lars’s total collapse, and he fell to his knees before him, winding his arms around his shoulders.

Lars’s arms unfurled from his legs. His hands clutched at James’s shirt.

He whispered over his neck, “Please, don’t…”

James squeezed his big arms around him.

Lars shook like a tiny earthquake against him.

He felt Lars’s whole face press against the curve of his neck, his hands dig and tear at his shirt—and he heard Lars’s sobbing plea, loud and clear.

“ _Don’t leave me alone again._ ”

James squeezed Lars tighter in his embrace, his cheek resting on top of Lars’s head. He ran a hand up and down Lars’s shivering back, his own tears falling, as he listened to the sobs Lars struggled to control, and the ones he couldn’t.


	8. Threshold of Transformation

They slept a day’s worth together, face-to-face, side-to-side, under the thick covers of their bed. Occasionally, James woke up to use the bathroom or get a drink of water. Lars never stirred once. Not even when James jostled the bed with his coming-and-goings. Lars slept this exact same way when they initially arrived home from Germany, but there were no drugs in his system this time. James had nothing to worry about. This was Lars’s body in control, Lars’s mind shutting him down and forcing needed repairs to whatever damage done over the course of however many hours or days. It wouldn’t be a complete recovery when Lars awoke. There was still too much to do, too much shit to wade through, but any little bit helped. One tiny patch done to a wall full of cracks meant one more less to fix. As long as everything moved forward, and not backwards, they’d make it. Lars would make it. 

James wasn’t sure on the hour, or the day, when he woke again. Over Lars’s shoulder, he found a cloudless blue sky, trees swaying here and there outside their large window. Yellow sunlight seeped into the room, turning the carpet into a pastel color, shining off furniture corners. It reached as far as their bed, hitting the base of their covered legs, warming their feet.

He looked back at Lars.

Parted dry lips. Breathing through his nose. Tiny snores.

Lars, sleeping, on his side of the bed.

He leaned forward.

Their foreheads touched. Noses brushed.

James felt Lars’s breath over his lips.

He slid his hand down Lars’s back, fingers skipping over the robe—his own robe.

His robe, on his Lars.

James breathed Lars in with his inhale.

On the exhale, he leaned back, slipped his arm away and rolled off the bed.

He busied himself downstairs in the kitchen, cooking a breakfast for two. A very late breakfast, according to the clock. He served the scrambled eggs, bacons and toasts on two plates, side-by-side on a large tray, then brewed tea for Lars, poured orange juice for himself.

The china rattled as he ascended the stairs, coming back into the room. He placed the tray at the end of the bed, a good distance from Lars’s feet, just in case.

James lay back onto his side. He lifted a hand to Lars’s face, running the back of his fingers over his cheek.

“Lars.” He repeated the gesture, leaning closer. “Wake up.”

A snore.

James cupped his jawline, and pressed his lips to Lars’s dry own.

He felt Lars’s whimper. Heard it loud in his ear.

When he pulled away, his world came awake. The nose scrunched up. His mouth opened wider, letting go a small yawn. Lars’s whole body stretching out from head to toe like a cat, a bone cracking, another whimper squeaking out, and then, the eyes fluttered open. They focused. They settled on him. Right on him.

James rubbed his thumb on Lars’s cheek.

Lars stayed still.

Big green eyes ate him alive.

He stopped his thumb, and waited.

Then, Lars’s attention drifted down.

The eyes closed.

Slowly, Lars turned his head, into James’s hand.

James watched Lars raise a hand up to his and covered it. Squeezed it.

Lips and nose pressed onto James’s palm.

Lars sighed through his nose. The warm breath spread throughout his hand, down to his wrist.

Against the skin, Lars mumbled a shaky, “Thank you.”

That hand squeezed his even tighter.

Another kiss. Another shaky sigh.

James closed the little gap between them, pulling his hand out of Lars’s, and embraced him, arms wrapping firm around his shoulders.

Lars returned it, with equal amount of strength, his face buried into the crook of James’s neck.

Their breakfast had turned cold by the time James pulled away from Lars again. James brought it back downstairs and heated it up in the microwave, while Lars waited in bed, sitting up against the headboard, all their pillows piled behind his back and head.

James returned and rested the tray onto Lars’s lap. He sat up against the headboard beside him, their hips and legs touching.

They ate in a comfortable silence James enjoyed, for once.

When they finished, James took the tray downstairs, soaked their dirty dishes in warm water, and quickly came back up.

Lars’s attention stayed on him as he mounted the bed and settled beside him again, his hands resting on top of his thighs.

That focus went to his hands.

He watched Lars grab the hand closest to him, and smiled when Lars turn it around palm up, and twine their fingers.

They squeezed their hands together, James first, Lars second.

When he looked up, James froze.

Lars’s smile. His small, tired smile.

The sunlight played behind him, covering his shoulders, tickling the top of his hair. It turned some of his skin gold, the hairs on his neck and forearms lighter.

He looked beautiful.

Tired, and beautiful, and his.

His Lars.

“Hi,” Lars whispered.

James’s smile turned wobbly. “Hi.”

More comfortable silence. He didn’t want to end it. Being with him like this, in their bed, in their room, he felt home. The house felt like a home again.

Lars did it instead. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” He rose his eyebrows, tilting his head. “And you?”

“Tired.”

“You should get some more rest.”

Lars shook his head no.

He watched him look down at their clasped hands, resting between their thighs.

That small smile on Lars disappeared. 

James bent his body closer.

He rubbed his thumb over Lars’s.

“Talk to me, babe.”

Lars shut his eyes.

Neither one moved.

Then, Lars finally said, “I don’t know how this happened.” He opened his eyes again. “I lost control.” A deep breath, and he rushed, “I lost control of my fucking mind, and it’s never going to be fixed.”

Lars lifted his head up.

“I feel like I’m insane, you know?” His voice wavered. “Like I’m a fucking animal.”

His attention snapped away to the front of the bed, followed by the quick jerk of his head, and Lars growled under his breath, thrummed with energy. “It’s stupid. All my thoughts are fucking irrational, and the thing is, I _know_ they’re irrational. I know they’re bad, and I know they make no sense, and yet, they just—” He hit his fist on his thigh. “They feel _right_. In those moments, they feel right to me, and…”

Lars’s body deflated with his sigh, his chin falling to his chest.

“I give into them.” He snorted. “Like an idiot.”

The eyes shut again. Lars shook his head again.

“I’m weak. I’m useless. I’m no good to anyone anymore.” Lars squeezed their hands. He barely heard his next whisper. “Especially you.”

James rose his free hand to Lars’s chin.

He tilted it up, turned it towards him.

“Look at me.”

Lars listened without fighting. Weary green eyes stared right at him, waiting for the words James would never say, but they were the awful words Lars expected, because those demons said so. The only words Lars felt comfortable with, because of those demons made him doubt everything else.

James leaned in.

Their lips met briefly, lingering as they parted.

When they met stares again, he said, “Thank you.”

Lars frowned. “For what?”

“For trusting me with your feelings.”

He snorted again, jerking his chin out of James’s hold. “They’re pathetic.”

“They’re real.”

“They’re stupid, James.” His head tilted down. “I know they’re stupid, and I have to get over them. I have to get control back.”

“And you will. It’s just going to take some time.”

“Yeah.”

James settled his free hand onto the juncture of Lars’s shoulder and neck. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

He untwined his hand with Lars’s, settling it onto the other juncture of his neck. Without needing to say anything, or do anything, Lars tilted his head back up, and James’s focus centered on this. Lars’s face. The wet green eyes. The parted lips.

His whole world.

James slid his palms across to cup his neck fully.

“I know you won’t believe any of this, but I have to say it.”

He leaned in closer.

“You are not an animal. You are not useless, or insane, or anything you think. You just got sick, and you _are_ going to get better. It’s going to take some time, but you will be the person you were before all this. A stronger, better person because of it. But you won’t be alone. You have me. I don’t care what you try to do, from here on out, I am _not_ going to let you push me away again. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.” He squeezed Lars’s neck, and leaned in even closer. “I’m going to be here for you. I’m going to stay by your side. I will _never_ let you be alone.”

His voice grew raspier.

“Because, you’re mine.”

Lars’s tears fell.

His own fell too, his lips turning into a wobbly smile.

“You’re mine, and I love you.”

Lars’s lips crushed against his before he could do anything. The momentum toppled James over onto his back, and Lars straddled his waist, settled on top of him, shoved frantic hands into his hair and squeezed, pushing his tongue into James’s mouth. And James gained his balance back by pushing back into that kiss, into Lars, sliding his hands up from Lars’s neck to his head and holding it in place, meeting Lars’s frantic pace.

He let Lars take control. Let Lars be the one to hold him down, plunder and explore and take his mouth and his body however he wished. He stayed pliant under him, releasing his hold of Lars’s head, slipping his hands down Lars’s neck, Lars’s shoulders, down his back and up again. It felt good. He felt good, and relaxed, succumbing to the the heat and the heaviness of Lars’s body over his.

It was like coming home again.

Soon, the hands in his hair loosened their hold. The kiss calmed down, the frantic desperation turning into something gentler. Needier. The same desperation as before, but slow, and tempered, and begging for more. For him.

James took his time rolling them to their sides. Took even longer taking control away from Lars in their kiss. It gradually happened with each pass of their lips parting and meeting again, the momentum falling into James’s favor, until Lars finally relaxed against him, sighing into his mouth, into their kiss.

He rolled them over once more. James settled on top, his arms framing Lars’s head. Lars’s hands slipped through James’s hair, down his neck. His palms cupped and grasped James’s broad shoulders, gave them a squeeze and slid them down, over James’s sides, up his expansive back, and down again. Repeating the motion, over and over, as James kissed him.

Their shared sighs and small moans together. Moved together. Breathed through their noses and grabbed what air they could between kisses.

When their last kiss finally petered out with a light smack, James pulled away and looked down at Lars, his cheeks flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded.

Lars looked back up, his cheeks pink, his hands flat on James’s back.

Comfortable silence.

It felt good. Felt right.

James slid a hand to Lars’s cheek.

He settled down and curled half his body over him, the other half on the bed. His cheek pressed to Lars’s collarbones, an arm across his torso, one long leg pushing between both of his.

Lars slid a hand up James’s spine to cup the back of his head. He turned his head into James, kissed his forehead and kept his lips on the skin, his nose on the hairline.

James shut his eyes and dozed off, listening to the sound of Lars’s steady breathing and equally steady heartbeat against his ear.


	9. Way Through Woven Branches

“I hate this.”

They hadn’t moved from the bed since midday. Slept the rest of the hours away. Now, the sun set outside their window, casting red and orange summer hues into their room, and James sat up against the headboard, with Lars curled up tight on his side, his head on his lap.

He gave Lars’s hair a pat from his hand, his palm rubbing over Lars’s tuffs of hair in slow strokes. “Hate what?”

In the red waning light, Lars’s skin had turned a healthy gold. “This. Holding shit back.” He glanced up at James. “It’s not fair to you.”

“It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“You’ll tell me—”

Lars pressed fingers to James’s mouth.

James quieted.

The hand slowly pulled away, back down to his lap.

Lars looked at his belt buckle. Stared at it.

Then: “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m afraid, which makes no fucking sense. I _shouldn’t_ be. I mean, I’ve never felt this awful before. I feel like one big pity pot and I should get over it, but I can’t. I hate complaining, only to end up fucking doing nothing. You know? I’m sulking, and sulking, and that’s all I’m doing. I’m not getting up and doing shit. I’m just wallowing _in_ shit.” His voice wavered in his next whisper. “It’s horrible. It’s a side of me I never wanted you to see. You’ve already gone through enough shit in your life. You don’t need my shit piled on. It’s my brain going wacko on me. That’s not your problem. That’s my burden to bear. My responsibility, dammit.”

He stopped his hand movements at the base of Lars’s neck.

James gave it a light squeeze.

Lars curled up even tighter. His knees hit James’s thigh.

He sunk his fingers into the hem of James’s shirt.

“But I need you.”

James smiled.

He moved his hand up and down over Lars’s head, occasionally sliding it down to Lars’s back, and up again. Gentle, long strokes.

The sun was almost gone from the sky when Lars spoke again. James stopped his hand again at the base of Lars’s neck, looking out the window.

“I wasn’t really well before Donington happened. I didn’t sleep right. I kinda had to force myself to eat. All I did was work. Press releases, interviews, all that shit. And to keep up appearances, I still went to parties. I didn’t want to tip off people I was miserable. Hell, I don’t even think I wanted to admit it myself. I was angry at you. Angry at myself for being this fucked up over it. We separated. So what? We separated in 2001, and I didn’t fall apart then. I kept myself together even when you went to rehab. When you came out of it. When you wanted nothing to do with me and I thought, that’s it, it’s all over. I should’ve been a mess, right? And I was, in a way. But not like this. Not like I was before that fucking plane ride.

“I guess it didn’t help that on top of all of this, I was flying back and forth between shows to Copenhagen. Dumb move, I know, but I just—I couldn’t stand being in the same area as you. I couldn’t deal with it. I felt like a failure, one big gigantic fucking failure. And you know, at the time, I had no idea it was my depression pushing these thoughts on me, because I thought this was me being typical me, but fuck, they were absolutely right. Napster. Nothing else to say there, uh? But then you and your back, that happened in the same year. And while that situation was easily controlled, it was kind of the beginning of the end for us. I could handle you not coming with me to the Senate for the hearings. Your back was already giving you major problems, and I didn’t want to force you on an uncomfortable five hour plane ride. I understood. But you not wanting me there for your therapy sessions? Telling me ‘you have more important shit to do’ and ‘you’d get in the way’? ‘You can’t help’? I couldn’t believe you.

“So I worked. I thew myself into everything Metallica-related and let it completely consume me. So I didn’t have to think. So I didn’t have to see you, or worse, have the two of us alone somewhere, outside of a studio situation. I couldn’t have that happen. Then you started going out more, with Pepper and the boys, and I got mad, so I retaliated by going out more too, with Jer, and Twiggy, and everyone else you’d hate. I was an idiot. By making you miserable, I made myself fucking miserable. We drifted apart even more. And I knew how to stop it. I knew what I had to do. But I was afraid. If we talked—if we said the things I knew we were holding back, I had this gut feeling, that was it. We’d never recuperate. That line we had, that agreement we made, about us separating the personal and the professional? Bam, gone. There’d be no way we could co-exist in the studio anymore. The band would be history. Our worst fears going into the relationship would’ve come true. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let you, or me, do that, to ourselves, to Jason, to Kirk, to the fans… I just couldn’t. No matter how badly I wanted to talk to you, I couldn’t let us destroy what we worked so hard to achieve.”

Lars glanced up at him. “Lot of good that did, uh?”

“Heh.” James nodded.

“Right.” He turned his attention back to James’s belt buckle. James’s focus remained on him. “So, that happened. Therapy started with Phil. It did some good at first. We were talking again. Opening up more. I heard things about you I never had before. It was nice. I like learning new things about you. But it was too late to save us. Therapy only weakened our personal-professional line, until it finally snapped, and all we were doing was arguing. All the fucking time. The one thing we swore we’d never let happen. Argue studio shit and business shit in the house. Take the road life into our home life. That line finally disappeared, and it was inevitable we’d break up. I was waiting for it. I just didn’t know it’d come with you going into rehab too.

“I worried so fucking much while you were in there. I wanted to help you. I wanted to be there for you. I was at the point of even wanting to kidnap you, or running away with you. But I wasn’t yours anymore. I wasn’t your Lars, and you weren’t my James. I could handle that though, because no matter what, I swore to you I’d be your friend for life. I was even okay with you deciding not to come home with me. What did hurt? Calling me that day before September 11th, telling me you’re not coming back to the band, you’re not ready, you didn’t know if you’d ever be ready, and that was it. Hung up. No warning. No chance for me to speak, to even fucking ask how you were doing, if you’d need anything. It just showed me that to you, I wasn’t a friend, or even a fucking ex, I was just some guy you had to deal with. Some asshole you didn’t even want to talk to, let alone see in the flesh.

“Those months leading up to your return were the hardest months of my life. I was so alone. I filled up my time with friends and family and parties and galas and shit, but it didn’t matter. I’d still come home to an empty house, with an empty side of the bed. I really could’ve started dating again. Or you know, found some starry-eyed kid to fuck. I actually tried a couple times. But I didn’t want them. My heart wasn’t into it. That’s when I realized the bitter truth: all I wanted was you. You. And I hated you for it. That’s one of the reasons why I lashed out at you and acted like shit to you when you came back to the band. Why I screamed ‘fuck’ into your face, even though it hurt me to do it. Because I still loved you, when you didn’t.

“Thank God Phil made us do those private sessions with him. I don’t think we could’ve survived ‘02 without them. The couples therapy helped out too. They helped out a lot when I think about it. We were able to get through ‘03 pretty well with them, you know? I learned a lot more about you. I think you did too, about me. And I felt more comfortable talking to you. I could feel our trust rebuilding. I guess it was bound to happen that we’d start again. You don’t just go to couples therapy as ex’s and not expect to want to try again. I thought Phil had lost his fucking mind sending us to a couples therapist. Turns out he knew shit better than we did.

“I thought when we started again, things were going to be different. They were, for a little while, at least. It was good. We had a nice thing going on. Spending days off together. Exploring museums and beaches and whatever local stuff we could do. Going shopping. Eating out. Some days just relaxing in our room, watching TV or whatever. I missed those moments so much. But we couldn’t keep it together long enough. It didn’t last. I don’t know when or where on the tour it happened, but we soon got lost in our own worlds. I know I did. Partying too much, coming back too late, when I knew you hated it. When I knew you weren’t that comfortable yet with alcohol. That was my fault, and I’m sorry. 

“Everything started going downhill from there. The arguments came back. The tension too. It showed in our performances, filtered our conversations, you know. One minute I’m wondering where my favorite shirt is, and in the next, we’re blaming each other for last night’s shitty performance. That’s when I started to freak out. That’s when I started having anxiety problems. I mean, I’ve had anxiety in the past, hypochondria and all, but this was just—this was, fucking… I can’t even explain it. I don’t have the words. Suffocating doesn’t feel right somehow. I just, you know, I keep thinking, ‘Jesus fucking Christ not again, after all we’ve been through, why, why now, I thought we were over this, I thought we learned from our mistakes’ and I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. It felt like I was drowning. I couldn’t get enough air. I couldn’t stop this.

“And they wouldn’t stop coming. They came more frequently after you asked for that break. Sometimes, I could control them. They wouldn’t last long. Minutes, tops. No one caught me, thank God. Once, I had one backstage, it might’ve been in Fresno or some shit. I was able to hold it in. Kinda stood there and you know, forced myself to calm down. No one saw it. I felt in control, at least. I felt like I could control my stupid mind. You know. Strong enough to stop this from consuming, well, everything. Then came Donington.

“I don’t know what exactly made me snap that day. I’ve thought about it a lot. It was most likely a combination of everything finally coming to a head, so I’ve been told. Napster, Jason, the band, you and me, therapy, that movie, the album, touring, lack of sleep, lack of eating, the panic attacks, all those thoughts I kept having — my mind had enough. But I remember that day. Pretty well actually. I just finished having breakfast with like fourteen of my cousins and my aunt and uncle, when I first felt this tingling sensation in my arms. I knew that sign. I ignored it. I hadn’t had any sleep the night before. Maybe had like, half an hour, tops. Didn’t really end up eating much either. I went on the plane with Steve and the others soon after, and that tingling sensation wouldn’t go away. It spread up my arms, right to my chest. My heart went too fast. I started feeling dizzy, and heavy, and just being in that small fucking tube at a high fucking altitude, it got to me. You know I hate flying, as much as I do enjoy traveling. I’ve always had an anxiety about it. So add that, plus everything else I was feeling, and there you go.”

The sun had went down, past the trees surrounding their home, the red and orange hues fading away. Purple and black slowly consuming the sky, and the interior of their room, little by little.

James stayed still.

Lars licked his dry lips.

“I honestly thought I was going to die.” Lars swallowed hard, his Adam’s Apple bobbing. “I thought this was it, I’m finally having a heart attack, I’m not going to make it. Steve tried to calm me down. Tried to get me to breathe. I couldn’t. I was just gone. I wasn’t there anymore. All I could think was ‘I’m going to die, I’m going to die.’ Then the plane landed. The EMTs arrived. I got rushed to that hospital, and I was just thinking, ‘I can’t die, I have a fucking show to do, I have to get to Donington, I have to make it,’ and as strange as that sounds, that kept me alive. It kept me fighting. I couldn’t let all those people down. I couldn’t…”

James worked his dry throat to ask, “Couldn’t what?”

Lars looked up at him. “Let you down.”

His hand slipped away from Lars’s neck.

He rested it onto Lars’s hip, his breathing erratic.

Lars’s focus went back to his belt buckle.

“I’m sorry I acted the way I did. Ever since the hospital, I treated you like shit, and I realize that now. I projected all of my self-hate and frustrations and anger onto you, and you didn’t deserve any of it. But when you came, when you walked into my room, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, we were still separated at that point, and you hadn’t given me the time or day, you know? I just couldn’t believe you flew all the way from England to Germany, immediately after the show, just to see me. To make sure I was okay. And worse. To fucking stay with me until I could be discharged, and then take me home. Take care of me.

“I didn’t want to believe you cared about me. I didn’t want myself to care either. I thought you came as a friend, and that I could handle. I needed a friend at that point. Then you started, you know, hugging me. Kissing me. Treating me like I wasn’t just a friend, but more. I guess my mind was stuck in 2002 or some shit, because I was shocked. Seriously shocked that you were doing that. I gave into it for a while. I felt weak doing so, but I needed it. I needed that attention you were giving me so much. I wouldn’t have lasted the hospital without it. But I swore to myself, once I got home, things were going to change. I was going to change. I wasn’t going to let you take care of me the rest of my life. You didn’t need that shit, and neither did I. So what, I have depression. Dysthymia, and anxiety. Whatever. That wasn’t going to stop me. Once the drugs wore off and I was home, I’d beat my stupid brain into submission and get over this quick. Then we’d go back on tour, finish it up, go have our break, and then back to the studio for a new album. It sounded easy. Something I could do. Something I had confidence in.”

Lars snorted. “That all went to hell pretty fast, uh?”

James gave his hip a squeeze.

He watched Lars sigh. The warm breath hit his belly.

“I’m glad you came back.”

Lars pressed his face into his stomach, his hand twisting into the hem of his shirt.

He felt and heard Lars breathe him in. The exhale warmed his skin.

Against it, Lars muffled out, “I need you.”

James brought his other hand to the back of Lars’s head. He rubbed his thumb against the curve, while the hand on Lars’s hip slid up Lars’s side to his waist, giving it a small squeeze.

When Lars dozed off, his soft snores tickling James’s tummy, James took his time lifting Lars up from his lap and onto the sheets. He tucked him under the covers on his side of the bed, giving Lars his own pillow to sleep on, and then curved up behind him, an arm around Lars’s waist, his nose and lips on the nape of Lars’s neck.

In the morning, Lars finally took off James’s robe, and the clothes he wore for days now. He spent an hour bathing himself in the shower while James busied himself in the laundry room, and then in the kitchen. He took his own shower after Lars finished.

They ate their breakfast together in another comfortable silence, Lars wearing one of James’s Raiders jerseys, James in shorts and a tank top.

Lars finished first, taking his empty bowl to the sink. He asked, while washing the dish, “What’s today?”

“Hm?”

“What day are we?”

James finished chewing and said, “I’m not sure. Wednesday, Thursday maybe?”

“I’ll go see.”

Lars gave him a kiss on the cheek on the way out.

James watched him leave, a small smile on his face.

He found Lars later in their bedroom, standing barefoot in front of his dresser, a t-shirt on and his jeans unzipped. “Uh, what’re you doing?”

“I’m getting dressed.”

“I see that.”

Lars chuckled. “It’s Thursday, James. I’ve got an appointment.” He zipped his jeans up, turned to him and smiled. “Want to come with?”

James grinned.

They arrived early to Dr. Klein’s office, having taken the shortest and easiest route there. Lars wanted to make up for last time, show he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. 

In the parking lot, he watched Lars step out of the car, and then stop, turning back to him. “You can come inside.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Lars touched his arm and leaned in. “I only said what I said because I was ashamed of myself. Not you.” He patted James’s forearm quick. “Come on.”

James followed behind him, rubbing the skin Lars touched.

Inside the office, they sat side-by-side, James’s hand occasionally brushing Lars’s knee. Lars caught his eye a few times, sometimes with a warning look, sometimes with an amused look.

Close to his designated therapy time, Lars said, “Do you remember two weeks ago, when I kinda stormed out of here?”

“Yeah?”

“She warned me about something.”

“About?”

Lars turned to him. “Pushing you away.”

James’s hand rested on top of Lars’s knee.

Lars’s hand followed suit, covering James’s.

The door to Dr. Klein’s office opened. Over Lars’s shoulder, James saw her stand in the doorway, a hand on the frame.

“Lars?”

Lars squeezed James’s hand.

That look.

All that uncertainty, and fear.

Dr. Klein stepped out. “Lars?”

James slipped his hand out from under Lars’s. He caught Lars’s fingers in his hand, squeezing them tight.

“I’ll still be here when you’re done.” He smiled. “Okay?”

Lars managed a smile back. “Okay.”

He watched Lars stand up on shaky legs and walk to Dr. Klein, shaking her hand. They exchanged quick pleasantries.

When Lars disappeared beyond his line of sight, Dr. Klein met his eye. She smiled and nodded to him, shutting the door behind her.

James slumped back into his chair, hands flopping into his lap. He stared at the coffee table full of reading material, a small smile curling up on his lips, and then picked up an old issue of People’s magazine to pass the time.


	10. Temporal

This was the return James had hoped for when they initially left Germany. A warm home. Wrinkled sheets and body heat. Music playing, the TV on, open windows, all this _noise_ , and a Lars that wanted to get better. A Lars that needed and wanted him there, by his side. 

It hadn’t seem like a week had passed since Lars’s last therapy session. The days no longer dragged. They blended in a way that stretched time, so their moments could withstand a few seconds more of becoming a memory. So each moment tasted like forever.

James cherished all his time spent with Lars. Cooking together. Eating together. Swimming in their pool, kissing in the shallow end, playing in the deep end. Watching Lars laugh at their favorite bad movie, do the dishes, make their bed, dress in front of the mirror, or sleep beside him. Kissing him. Holding him. It was a symphony of first times, each one more precious than the last, and James burned them all to his memory, lest this be taken away from him again, someday. 

The day after Lars’s next therapy session, they woke up later in the morning, James curved behind Lars’s back. They took turns showering, Lars volunteering to cook breakfast. And it was during their meal, that Lars brought another change into their lives.

“Let’s go.”

James looked up from the newspaper he read on the kitchen table. Lars stood at the sink, staring out the window, with his hands on the edge—triggering a memory of the balcony, that he quickly suppressed. “What?”

Lars turned to him. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Like?”

He shrugged.

“That’s not helpful.”

“Does it matter where? We’ve been in this house for over a month. Any other place but here sounds good to me.”

James gave him a look. “You’re serious.”

“You think?”

“Did you clear it with Dr. Klein?”

“She’s the one who encouraged it.”

He chuckled. “Right.”

“I mean, it’d be nice, getting out of here for a little bit, you know? Change of scenery might do us some good. I can’t miss the next appointment though, so we’ll have to come back before Thursday.”

“Of course.”

“So…” Lars rubbed his forearm. “You wanna?”

James smiled and nodded yes.

Lars grinned.

They spent most of the day going over locations and hotels. James suggested the idea of staying near a waterfront, an idea he knew Lars would easily agree with. While he wasn’t a big fan himself of staying near the ocean, it’d make Lars happy, and that was the whole point him of agreeing to do this. To help his Lars. Keep his recovery going. Make him healthy again.

Together, they thumbed through old brochures of villas, rental vacation homes, five-star hotels in various areas along the California coastline. Nothing too far from home, so Carmel, Pismo, Santa Barbara and the like down South were out of the question. “I don’t want us driving too far,” James said. Pescadero and Half Moon Bay seemed like the winners, but Lars said, “That’s too close, we could go there anytime.” So Jenner and Bodega Bay became the only options left.

Lars still hadn’t decided on either one by the time afternoon arrived. James flipped through a magazine next to Lars on the couch, shaking his head. “Just pick something.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Uh-hu.” He turned the page.

“I want it to be good.”

“Every one of them looked good to me.”

“It has to be…”

“Be what?” He turned and found Lars bug-eyed, staring at the interior of a blue brochure. “Lars?”

Lars looked at him, and flipped the brochure over.

The magazine in James’s hands flopped to the floor.

The following day, they took the three-hour drive from Tiburon to their rental home a few miles outside of Carmel-by-the-Sea. It was a longer drive than James initially wanted, having placed Carmel in the ‘do not go’ list. But the brochure sold him. That house sold him.

He wasn’t disappointed when they passed the security gates and drove down the long pathway to the base of the house, looking exactly the same as it did in the brochure. A one-story, one-bedroom rental home nestled into the cliffside, with large windows providing a 360-view of the Pacific, fully-stocked kitchen, wood fireplace in the bedroom, king-sized bed, jacuzzi bath with a high-pressured premium showerhead, on-call maid service, and a deck area with a cobblestone walkway leading down to the base of the beach. Their own patch of private beach. It was perfect for them both. For Lars.

They stood in the bedroom and stared out the large window, their luggage on the floor.

Lars’s fingers slowly twined around James’s.

“Thank you.”

James squeezed his hand, pulling him in.

Lars’s body leaned into his.

Three days. That was the length of time James booked the home for. Long enough for an escape, not too long that they’d miss Lars’s next session. Lars tried to push it to four, or five, but James had none of it. “We can always come back later,” he said, and Lars soon acquiesced with a kiss to James’s cheek.

They spent the day together exploring the land. James assuaged his inner road demon, driving down the long, winding road of Highway 1 to Big Sur and back, while Lars in the passenger’s seat took hundreds of photos on his camera. They stopped at a few places, like Bixby Bridge and Pfeiffer State Park, where James posed for Lars’s photos and let himself be pushed around, the camera clicking away at different angles. At the house, after their late lunch, Lars walked along their private beach, soaking his feet into the cold water and wet sand. James watched him from the patio at first, and later joined him once the dishes were done. They walked together listening to the waves, the wind, and the sound of Lars’s bracelet’s rattling, James’s arm around Lars’s waist, Lars’s arm around his hips.

When the sun started to fall from the sky, they returned to their vacation home. James cooked two medium-well steaks for dinner, while Lars chopped and tossed the salad.

They ate on the patio, watching the sunset and the ocean waves together.

By nightfall, with the dishes done and the kitchen cleaned, they moved to the living room, where they spent the rest of the evening watching a movie together, James’s arm around Lars’s shoulders, Lars’s head on James’s chest.

Lars retired first to the bedroom, once the movie ended. “Gonna take a shower,” he said, kissing James on the cheek.

“Alright.” He gave Lars’s shoulder a squeeze. “Be there in a second.”

James tidied up the room, listening to the shower kick up from next door. He then moved back into the kitchen, checking that all the windows were locked for the night and all the lights were turned off.

He picked up a few of the logs next to the kitchen stove, taking it with him.

Coming into the bedroom, he found the bathroom door open, and caught the outline of Lars’s body moving in the shower, steam rising from within, fogging the mirrors. He indulged in the sight, the way Lars’s hands moved slow over his face, down his torso, spreading water over his arms, turning around so the spray could get his back. And his body ached. It yearned. It’d been too long since he wanted Lars like this. Needing him, like this. In his arms. His lips on his skin, their legs entangled, their bodies moving together—and there was a nagging fear in the back of his head, telling him, ‘too soon, wait a little more, it’s not time yet.’ But he didn’t listen. He couldn’t wait anymore. Not when he had his Lars again, after everything that happened. Not like this.

James placed the logs into the fireplace. He stoked a fire, the flames rising slowly, until it lit the room up, warming his skin.

He stripped his clothes off, walking to the bathroom, his attention right on Lars. They lay scattered on the floor in his wake.

Lars didn’t seem to hear the shower door open. He continued washing his body with a loofa, running it over his chest, water trickling down his shoulders, over his back.

James took a step into the shower, sliding the door behind him.

The sound alerted Lars this time. He turned around and frowned when he saw James, his grip faltering on the loofa. “James?”

“Hey baby.”

“What’re you doing in here?”

“Conserving water.”

Lars smiled. “Really now.”

He took a step forward, closing the small gap between them. Hot steam fogged up the shower doors. Water sprayed around them.

James lifted a hand, covering one of Lars’s—the one holding the loofa. He eyed it for a second, and then returned his attention back to him, raising his eyebrows.

Lars slowly nodded.

He pulled the loofa out of Lars’s hand.

His focus went down to Lars’s torso, and his hand worked independent of his mind. He watched his hand run the loofa across Lars’s wet chest from shoulder-to-shoulder, soapy bubbles trailing in its wake. He repeated the motion down, over Lars’s left pec, across, then up, over the right. He watched Lars’s stomach clench, heard his small gasp, and his hand tickled the loofa under his chin, over his collarbones, to the junctures of his neck. Then his biceps. His forearms. Ribs. Tummy. Hips and he brought his other hand into play, resting his palm against Lars’s stomach, sliding it around his waist to the small of his back, and pushing him forward.

Their bodies pressed even closer.

James bent his neck down. Kissed his shoulder. Kissed all the way to his neck. Ran the loofa over Lars’s pelvic bone and down, between his inner thighs, and back up, to his hips. Over his ass.

Wet skin under his lips. His Lars’s wet skin under his lips.

The ache turned into a burn—

Lars’s hands lifted up, resting on his own bare, wet chest.

They pressed back a little.

“James…”

He looked up.

Big green eyes. Scared. Unsure.

Not ready.

Lars wasn’t ready.

The warm ache in his chest turned cold and painful.

James dropped the loofa, his arms winding around Lars, palms flat on his wet back, the spray hitting his forearms. He pressed his face into the corner of Lars’s wet neck, breathed him in through his nose, and exhaled slow, shaky.

Lars’s hands slid up, one weaving fingers into his wet hair, the other cupping the back of his neck.

He squeezed Lars tight in his embrace. Took another deep, shaky breath.

The hand in his hair massaged his scalp in slow strokes.

Lars’s whisper echoed, over the spray.

“It’s not you.”

His fingers dented Lars’s skin.

James left the shower first. He toweled off in the bathroom, throwing it hard into a corner of the room when done.

He padded back into the bedroom and slipped into the sheets naked, turning his back to the bathroom door and shutting his eyes.

The smell of wood burning eased his nerves. The sound of fire crackling lulled him to sleep.

When he woke again, he found Lars naked and dry, sitting up on his side of the bed, his back to James, his hands clutching the bed corners. The fire had waned a little.

He rested a hand on the small of Lars’s back.

Lars startled. Twisted around. Looked down at him.

His eyes shined in the light.

He looked so sad. 

Sad, and guilty.

James slid the hand to Lars’s waist, tugging on it.

Lars followed along, falling back to the bed, curling to his side and facing James.

He scooted closer to Lars, placing Lars’s arm around his own waist, his arm wrapping around Lars’s torso.

They kissed long enough to ease the tension away, James relaxing first, Lars second.

When it ended, Lars pushed his head to James’s chest, throwing a leg over James’s hip. His arm tightened around his torso.

James kissed his forehead, pressing his nose to Lars’s hairline. His focus rolled up to the window, where the summer moon reflected off the Pacific. And as the fire’s light finally died off, he wondered if this was a good decision after all.


	11. False Light

The morning brought little light into their home. Heavy fog filled up the sea in the early hours, lingering at the base of their private beach, eating up all the color. Nothing could be seen for hours. It receded too slow as the sun rose higher, along with the temperature.

Lars glanced at the fog a few times as they ate in the kitchen, wondering aloud, “You think it’s going to let up anytime soon?”

James stared at Lars and whispered, “I hope so.”

They spent the morning going over brochures brought from home, figuring out what to do today. Which beaches to visit next, which restaurant for lunch, anything James wanted to see, anything Lars wanted to see. There wasn’t anything that struck out to them, until Lars pointed to a park in a magazine for Carmel.

“This one.”

James looked over Lars’s shoulder.

The photo took up a full spread of the magazine. Dark blue waters, million-year old rocks, a sunken cove, sea lions, hanging vegetation and hundreds of old trees hanging low to the ground. Point Lobos State Reserve.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s got diving too.” Lars turned the page, showing off the reefs, fish and other underwater plants. “Haven’t done that in awhile.”

He eyed Lars. “You sure?”

“Why not? Should be fun.” He turned to another page. “Ah, see?” He leaned into James, finger pressing onto a yellow box with text. “There’s a whole list of picnic grounds here. We could go eat there for lunch instead of a restaurant.” Lars grinned at him. “Uh? How’s that sound?”

James stared at the magazine.

Kelp forests. Reefs. Various fish. He looked down, and noticed a list of animals also found in or near the coves. Orchas, dolphins, porpoises, sharks.

Sharks.

“We can eat there, yeah.” He pushed the magazine down, looking back at Lars. “But no diving.”

“What? Why not?”

He pointed to the word ‘shark.’

Lars glanced at it. Frowned. He flipped through the magazine, a blurred color of images whipping past, and then settled on a page, where a black-and-grey stripped shark filled up one side.

“They’re leopard sharks. Harmless to humans.”

“Lars.”

“I’ve swam with them before.”

“Yeah. Before. Not now.” James snatched the magazine away, throwing it to the coffee table with the others. He stood up, crossing over to the kitchen.

From the couch, Lars said, “What’re you saying?”

“Exactly what you think.” He opened the fridge door.

“I can do this, James.”

He cracked open a can of Sprite.

“I’m a fucking certified diver, or did you forget that?”

James closed the door and turned his back to him. Took a sip.

“You’re an idiot.” He heard feet padding away on the wooden floor. And then: “There’s no way I’m going to have a panic attack swimming next to a fucking shark, _or_ diving in general. But if you really think that? Fine. No way of convincing you otherwise.”

He placed the can on the kitchen countertop, staring at the window to a grey world. Total grey, nothing else.

James sighed and leaned hands against the side.

Bowing his neck, he whispered, “I’m just trying to protect you.”

“By smothering me?”

He looked over his shoulder.

Lars still stood in the doorway to their bedroom.

James stood up straight, facing him from across the room. “I didn’t smother you.”

“Sure as fuck felt like it.”

“Was it really that bad that you needed someone there to take care of you?”

“I needed you when I was drugged. Not for everything else.”

“You weren’t ready for those interviews.”

“They were my responsibility.”

“You just came out of the hospital.”

“You still didn’t ask me. You took that choice away from me.”

“I was trying to _protect you._ ”

“And all you did was show me how much of a fucking invalid I am when I can’t even do my own fucking interviews or return my own fucking phone calls.” Lars stepped out of the doorway. “You showed zero faith in me then, just like you are now.”

Silence.

That damn silence.

James shook his head. There was no end in sight. Seeing Lars like this, hearing his words, hearing himself—all this led down a road he didn’t want to take anymore. He knew it too well. He was tired of it.

Lars hadn’t changed.

Lars hadn’t improved.

_It’s all for nothing._

He turned away, heading for the patio door.

“Where are you going?”

James turned the knob and pushed it open. Cold wind hit him in the face, chilling his bare arms and legs.

“James!”

He looked over his shoulder, right at Lars. “You said you needed me. I should’ve known that meant whenever _you_ felt like it.”

Lars’s face fell. He reached a hand out to him.

“Wait—”

Doorslam.

His feet nearly slipped on the wet cobblestone path, walking down the steps to the beachfront.

There was nothing beautiful out here. Nothing of the beach he experienced yesterday. The fog consumed it all. Ate every piece of it away. At least it wasn’t as cold as he expected. The temperature lifted a little.

James sat on the sand, his arms hanging around his knees.

His skin turned grey in this fog. It melded with the sand, the rocks, the water.

He could barely make out the ocean waves’s rhythmic pulse, the foam crawling up the shore and receding again. But he heard its power. Its strong waves, crashing and churning, rising roars and settling hisses.

“James.”

He looked up.

Lars melded with the fog worse than he did.

“Come back inside.”

There were multiple answers that hit his brain. I don’t feel like it. Why should I? Why do you care? What else do you want from me now?

He looked away, back to where he thought the ocean was.

“In a little bit.”

“Please.”

“I said, in a little bit.”

“I don’t want us—I mean… this is our vacation. I don’t want it to be this way.”

A hand touched his shoulder.

Cold lips kissed his cold cheek.

They lingered there. So did that hand.

“I do need you,” Lars whispered. The hand squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll always need you.”

James shrugged his hold off.

He came back to his feet, going towards the steps. He could see them a little better.

That hand again, brushing the same shoulder.

“Wait.”

He shrugged it off again.

Fingers brushed his wrist.

“James, please—”

James slapped it back.

Turning around, he faced a Lars he couldn’t see, and said, “I never should’ve picked up the phone that day. I should’ve known better. You and me, it’s never going to work out like I hoped it would. We’re always going to go down the same path and make the same mistakes, and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of seeing you hurt yourself, and I’m tired of the abuse. So if you need me like you say you do, then let me help you. Otherwise, go find someone else to use. I’m done.”

Whatever Lars said next, the ocean waves swallowed up.

He turned back around, heading up the steps, back into the house. In the bedroom, James found the keys to the car, grabbed a jacket and headed out the front door. 

The fog lifted up the more he drove. He checked the time—a few minutes passed eleven. It didn’t feel like it. To James, it felt like the afternoon, and all he wanted to do was sleep for days. Sleep for a week even.

By the time he returned to the house, it was half past noon. The fog left, for now. Thick clouds scattered the blue sky in patches, here and there. But it was normal, at least. The world was normal again.

He entered into a silent house. No television playing. No shower running.

His feet creaked on the wood. The door shut too loud behind him.

“Lars?”

Instincts had him check the outside area first. Peeking through the kitchen window, he found only the ocean waves crawling up the shore.

He walked to the bedroom, trying the doorknob.

The door opened.

No Lars on the bed.

He stepped into the room.

“Lars?”

A loud wheeze.

He looked to his right.

The bathroom door, wide open.

Coming closer, he found Lars’s legs come into view. Then his body, hunched over on the toilet. His hanging head. Hands squeezing the knees.

The knuckles turned white. His arms shook.

His whole back expanded.

Another, louder wheeze.

“Shit.” James rushed in, falling to his knees. His hands picked up Lars’s cold, clammy head. “Lars. Look at me.” Frantic eyes met his and he squeezed Lars’s head. “It’s going to be okay. Breathe.”

“James—”

“Deep breaths.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. You can do this.”

“I _can’t._ ” Lars’s lips quivered. “I can’t breathe.”

“Okay. It’s okay.” He smoothed his hands over Lars’s face, down to his neck. “Just take your time. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” He slid his hands to Lars’s wrists. “Okay, baby? I’m staying right here.”

Lars whimpered, “Yeah?”

He heard that whimper before.

_Don’t go away again._

_Don’t leave me alone again._

That need and desperation, for him.

His face grew hot. A sharp pain spread out from his chest.

James squeezed his wrists. “Yes, Lars. I’m right here.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know, baby.”

“It’s like—it feels like before. Like—”

“Do you want the medicine?”

Lars shook his head no.

“Okay. You don’t have to take it. It’s okay.” He rubbed Lars’s wrists. “It’s going to be okay. Just relax. Take deep breaths. I’ll do them with you. Would that help?”

“Maybe…”

“Let’s try.” He covered Lars’s hands on top of his knees. “Breathe in.” He took a deep one.

Lars’s chest expanded a little.

He exhaled slow. “And out.”

Lars followed.

“Again. Breathe in.” Inhale. “And out.” Exhale. “Try to breathe from your belly. It’ll give you more oxygen.”

“Okay.”

“Breathe in.” Lars’s belly expanded. “And out.” And contracted. “Good. Again. Breathe in…”

They did it however many times, until Lars visibly calmed down before James. His body stopped shivering. The hands under his loosened. He seemed relaxed—or as relaxed as possible. It helped ease the pain in his own chest, at least.

When he finished his last breath, James squeezed Lars’s wrists. “How do you feel now?”

Lars took another breath. On the exhale, he said, “Better.”

“Would you like some water?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

He gave his wrists a quick squeeze and pushed off his knees, heading to the kitchen. And when he came back into the room with the glass, he found Lars struggling out of the bathroom, balancing himself with a hand on the doorframe.

James placed the glass on the nightstand. He offered a hand out to Lars, and he smiled when Lars took it.

His free arm went around Lars’s shoulders, helping him to the bed. They sat together on the edge, Lars leaning into his side.

He let go of Lars’s hand, reaching over his lap to grab the glass, offering it to him.

Lars took it into his hands, taking long sips. James kept a hand hovering nearby, just in case.

Once the glass was drained, Lars gave it to him. James placed it back on the nightstand, and returned his hand over Lars’s. “Good?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad.”

Then came that silence.

Lars stayed still against him.

James listened to his steady breathing, rubbing a thumb over his skin here and there. He didn’t move his attention elsewhere. It stayed on Lars. How he looked. The clammy, sweaty skin. His weary eyes. Weary face.

He watched Lars whisper, “I’m sorry.”

His fingers squeezed Lars’s hand.

Lars shut his eyes.

James shut his too. He pressed their heads together.

His fingers soon weaved with Lars’s.

“I’m sorry too.”

They slept the afternoon together, James spooned behind Lars, under the covers of their bed. Around the dinnertime, James asked their on-call maid to deliver a meal to them. An hour later, it arrived from a restaurant nearby called Nepenthe: grilled chicken breast for two, served with mashed potatoes, broccoli and gravy. They ate in bed too, the fireplace burning again, casting a warm, orange-red light on their bed, their clothes and themselves.

When they finished, James gave him a parting kiss goodnight, curled around him again and fell asleep without a word said. The last thing he felt was Lars’s hand squeezing around his forearm, a sensation that left his lips curved in a smile as he slept.

Sometime during the night, James awoke to the jostling sensation of Lars turning in his arms. He opened his eyelids just enough to see, but to hide that he was actually awake.

He made out Lars’s body facing him. The bottom of Lars’s chin. The waning firelight. His bare chest. 

Lars lifted a hand to his chest, resting the palm over his heart. 

James’s eyelids closed. 

He fell back asleep to the gentle sensation of Lars's lips kissing his cheek, lingering for a moment, before he pulled away—his hand staying in place.


	12. Weight

He woke up to a grey morning sky, and an empty side of the bed.

James rolled over onto his back.

Too cold. Too quiet.

The same.

He leaned up, checking the clock on the nightstand. 8:32AM.

James settled back down, his hands folding over his belly.

Grey swallowed the world outside the window. If he walked out the room, it’d be a 360 panoramic view of nothing but grey. No ocean, no sky. Just grey.

Some view.

He sighed and rolled off the bed.

There was no Lars in the kitchen, or the living room. Only one place left, and he didn’t want to bother looking out the kitchen window yet, or any of the windows.

Corn Flakes, no Cheerios. Some stocked kitchen.

He ate at the table, occasionally stirring his spoon around and around in the milk.

Most of the food ended up in the sink. Milk and soggy cereal stuck to the sides. He washed them away as he cleaned his bowl.

Once finished, he finally looked out the window.

No Lars on the patio either.

James glanced at the cobblestone path to the beachfront.

He sighed and shook his head.

The fog seemed thicker outside. Colder too. Each step he took down the path, he lost visibility and forced himself to slow down, feeling out each edge.

When his bare foot hit cold sand, James called out, “Lars?”

An ocean roar answered back.

He walked forward into the grey.

“Lars?”

He veered to the left, down the path of beach he and Lars took the first day they arrived.

The fog hung like cobwebs strung across the air. Heavy cobwebs that entangled and entrapped.

“Lars? Where are you?”

Ocean waves hit his feet. Some waves dragged at his ankles. The force of the undertide almost pulled him in. Almost dragged him out to sea.

The sensation made James walk faster.

_He’s okay._

And faster.

 _You_ know _he’s okay._

His walk turned into a jog.

_Trust him._

_Trust that he’s okay._

“Lars!”

_Please be okay._

A gust of cold ocean wind. Another cold ocean wave. Cold sand under his feet.

No sight of him. No sound.

Then, he could see ahead.

He could see better.

He breathed easier when he made out the sand of the beach, the foam of the wave as it hit his feet, struggling up the shore.

The fog lifted the further he jogged.

It turned into meager wisps of grey, easy to see through and discern what lay ahead.

A shadow.

A figure.

James slowed down.

The fog seemed to part and melt away the closer he came to it. The waves lessened in intensity too.

He made out arms and legs first. The torso next. And when the head came into view, James released a long, loud breath.

Lars.

The fog lifted more the closer he walked. He saw Lars’s body clearer, the black shorts he wore, his white t-shirt, until he saw him fully, from head to toe.

A few feet away from him, James stopped.

His feet sunk into the wet sand.

Lars didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge him.

He stared ahead.

James followed his line of sight.

The fog. A curling, living grey line that sliced the sky from the sea.

“Do you see it?”

He looked back to Lars.

Lars still stared ahead.

“See what?” James asked.

An ocean wave hit his ankles.

The sound nearly ate up Lars’s whisper.

“Me.”

Lars walked forward.

And forward.

A strong wave hit Lars’s knees, pushing him back a little.

James stayed in place, watching him with tensed shoulders and curled fists.

Lars waded out into the ocean, until the water reached him waist-high. His body moved and swayed with each new wave pulsing out from the sea and spreading out onto the shore behind him, onto James’s feet.

The ocean became their silence.

Cold wave after cold wave soaked his ankles and feet, occasionally reaching up his calves.

Lars stared.

Lars swayed with the water.

And after the next wave hit land, Lars spoke.

“There’s this dream I’ve had for a while now, since Germany. I start at a beachfront. It’s barren, and foggy, and I’m alone. I walk into the water, until I’m ankle high. On the next step, I lift my foot up, and the ocean—it’s solid. You know. I can stand on top of it. I can walk its surface. So I do. I walk the Pacific. I walk the Atlantic. I walk right into the fog, and I’m not scared. I always know where I’m going somehow. I know I’m going to be okay. Eventually, I see something in the distance. The fog starts to lift. And when it does, I wake up. It’s become my biggest, stupidest wish. I want to walk over the ocean. I want to step into that fog and see what’s waiting for me. But it’ll never happen. There’s this weight on me I can’t escape, anchoring me down whenever I try to leave. I’ll never walk the sea. I’ll never be free.”

He turned to James, and gestured down himself.

“I’ll always sink.”

James stared.

Lars’s arms fall to his sides.

Ocean waves. Ocean wind.

James stepped into the next wave.

He pushed against the force of the next, waded forward into the water, until it too reached him waist-high.

Lars’s head tilted up.

James’s wet hands cupped his face. Thumbs rubbed the cheekbones.

They pushed down, over his jawline, his neck, across to his shoulders, his biceps.

He pulled Lars in, arms winding around his back.

Lars’s arms snake around James’s waist, his lips pressed to James’s shoulder.

They rocked together with subsequent waves, keeping the embrace tight.

When the fog dissipated further and the sun’s rays finally touched their chilled bodies, James pulled back, an arm lingering around Lars’s shoulders.

One of Lars’s arms stayed around James’s waist.

They walked back onto the shore, the sun warming their backs.

Back at the house, they stripped themselves of their wet clothes, throwing them in the laundry basket. James fished out two big towels from the linen closet. The first one, they used to clean their sandy feet with. The other, he wrapped it around Lars, and steered him towards the bedroom.

Lars followed the silent command. James gathered firewood and followed right behind him.

He stoke a fire quick, bringing the flames up high. Heat hit his cold chest and arms, the yellow-orange light turning his pale skin a healthy color.

When he stood up and turned, James found Lars tucked under the covers, the towel now on the floor, and his focus right on him.

“I never wanted to share that with you,” Lars said.

“How come?”

Lars’s voice wavered. “It’s all I had left.”

That focus stayed on him as he came forward, climbing onto the bed and over Lars’s body. He settled on top of him, arms on either side of his head.

He looked better. Healthier.

More scared and unsure than before.

All broken open. All his.

James settled a hand over Lars’s heart.

“Thank you.”

He leaned down. Their noses brushed.

“I won’t misplace your trust.”

Their lips met in a kiss meant to be brief. But Lars’s hands were quick in anchoring him down, fingers pressing into his scalp, sealing their mouths together for a little bit longer.

When the kiss ended, Lars rolled the two of them over to their sides. He pressed his cheek over James’s heart, his arms tightening around his waist.

James smiled and settled a hand on the small of his back, rubbing it in slow circles.

They didn’t move from bed until their bodies warmed again, the view from their window all bright blue, of the sea and the sky overcoming the line between them and merging as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part here? This is the very reason why I wanted to write this story in the first place back in 2009.


	13. 20 Minutes / 40 Years

The next day, when they returned home and put away their things, Lars turned to James in their bedroom and said, “It’s time.”

“For what?”

“To talk.”

He faced Lars fully.

“Not us. I mean, _we_ need to talk, but not to each other. Well, we do, but—fuck, okay, let me try again.”

James chuckled. “Okay?”

Lars sighed. “We need to talk to Steffan.”

Out of all the interviews Mark had set up for James to do, Steffan hadn’t shown up on the list. Not because they didn’t trust Steffan or deem him worth of any interview, but because they knew talking to Steffan meant being honest and open, all chips on the table and nothing held back. Nothing. All their interviews given to their fan magazine So What since his rehab had been open-hearted, honest and pure, and James refused to give an interview that was anything but that. But they weren’t ready. They couldn’t—Lars couldn’t—open up like that, just yet.

They sat together in Lars’s long-unused office, James’s hand resting over on Lars’s thigh.

“You sure about this, baby?”

Lars’s free hand laid over his, the other holding the phone to his ear. “Not really, no.”

“We can hold off on it still.”

“I know.” He squeezed James’s fingers. “But if I don’t do it now, I know I won’t ever do it.” He smiled. “Better do it while I’m still a little bit crazy, uh?”

James squeezed his fingers back.

He heard the phone pick up, followed by Steffan’s voice. “Hello?”

“Steffan, it’s Lars.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, back from the dead.”

“Fuck, how are you doing?”

“Good, good.” Lars met James’s eye. “Listen, I was wondering…”

They had the interview a few days later, on the day of Lars’s next therapy session. Steffan came over the house after they returned from Dr. Klein’s, eating a light lunch together before moving to the outside area, where they sat in sun chairs and surrounded a sun table, the summer heat warming their bodies, cooled by the occasional ocean breeze.

Steffan lay the tape recorder on the table between them. He met Lars’s eye first, then James’s. “Suffice to say, if you feel at any point I should turn the tape off, please tell me. No hard feelings.”

“Of course,” Lars said.

James nodded.

“Okay.”

He hit play.

Under the table, James’s hand wove with Lars’s.

Softball questions first. Steffan knew how to treat them well. How are you doing Lars, what’s been going on, is your health improving? Lars answered them in relatively short sentences. Then came the big one: “What happened?” Lars didn’t go into too much detail. He said enough. James relived his answers in memories—the plane ride, the panic attack, how Lars felt, his admittance to the hospital, the week stay of monitoring and tests—and he held his breath when Lars said what Dr. Conrad’s profession was.

“A psychiatrist?” Steffan asked.

“Yeah. They brought him in from Berlin to assess why I had so severe a panic attack.”

“I see.”

“And he ended up finding some of root to it.”

“Yes?”

“It was…”

Steffan frowned. “Lars?”

Lars turned to James.

Fear. Uncertainty.

Needing him.

James brought his other hand around the one he already had on Lars’s hand. They squeezed it together. He nodded.

Lars crushed his fingers back.

He watched him square his shoulders. Sit up better. Turn to Steffan.

“Depression.”

The next hour tested James’s temperament and resolve. More than once during the interview, he wanted to step away from the table, or make Lars stop the conversation. It wasn’t that Lars divulged everything. He didn’t. Lars picked and chose his words and his memories carefully. But hearing everything again, all the details of the past two months—and couple years—weakened James. He forced himself to stay still, and stay quiet. This was for Lars. For him. He couldn’t abandon him again.

When they finished, Steffan walked around the table and gave Lars a hug. “Thank you.” And then James. “Both of you.” He turned back to Lars. “I’ll send you the transcript first thing in the morning.”

“No rush.”

“If there’s anything you want edited out—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I insist. This is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen you do. The least I can do is make sure you’re protected.”

Lars smiled at James. “I’ve got that covered.”

James smiled back.

Twenty-four hours later, Steffan emailed the transcript over to Lars. They reviewed it over together in Lars’s office. And as James expected, Lars left it all unedited.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Positive. I want no bullshit between us or our fans, ever. If they don’t like it, fuck ‘em. We already lost enough after the movie, uh?”

“Heh, true.”

Lars slid his hand over James’s knee. “I did have a question though.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, Steffan’s wondering in the email, and I kinda am too, but I didn’t want to do this without your permission, so…” He squeezed the knee. “Do you want to be mentioned? You know, in the interview? That you were with me?”

James laid his hand over Lars’s. “They know enough.”

Lars nodded and hit the ‘send reply’ button.

A week later, the issue came out, the quickest turn around for the club magazine in its existence. What it lacked in new images of Lars, it made up for in Lars’s words. Especially Lars’s words.

The metal media picked up the information soon after. Mark reassured James in a voicemail not to worry. “Now that they know the truth, it’s a mixed bag. Some of them don’t care anymore. And the ones who do and want more? I’m telling them they got all the information they needed.”

James called Mark back, asking, “How are the fans taking it?”

He got his answer in a box—a huge bin of letters and printed-out emails and pages of forum posts from all around the world, all for Lars.

They sat at the kitchen table side-by-side, reading what they could. Words of support. Words of understanding. I know what you’re going through. I have it too. You’re so brave, Lars. You inspire me. You encourage me. You’ll get better. You’ll beat this.

More than once, Lars had to stop reading. James too.

By nightfall, they retired to their bedroom, laying over the sheets face-to-face, side-by-side, wearing their sleeping shorts only. 

“I’m so glad I did that,” Lars said. “I should’ve known, you know, that I wasn’t the only one. That I wasn’t alone.”

“It’s what depression does. But you recognize that now.”

“Yeah. I do.”

James touched his cheek with his fingertips. “I’m so proud of you, baby.” He ran them down the skin, under his scratchy jawline. “You’re going to make it. One day at a time.”

Lars caught his fingers. He smiled. “Yeah.” Scooted closer. “We will.” And leaned in. “Together.”

James’s eyes drifted close.

The first kiss lasted all but a second. The second kiss Lars pressed to his lips lasted longer. It pushed. Insisted. Needed more.

He sighed into the third. Relaxed into the fourth.

On the fifth, his arms came around Lars’s bare torso.

His mind drifted away and his body went slack when Lars’s tongue slipped into his pliant mouth. The pressure of the kiss bruised his lips. His mouth pulsed. His body burned. It felt good. He felt good.

Lars felt good.

He let Lars control the kiss. Let him push the sheets away and shove their bodies together. Hands roamed over his back, over his head. Grabbed patches of his skin and squeezed, patches of his hair and pulled. His hands reciprocated, skipping down Lars’s spine, feeling up his muscled back. Groping what he could. Touching and stroking his skin.

It felt so good.

It felt right.

He rolled them over, pulling Lars on top of him. The kiss intensified. Lars rubbed up against his hip. Rubbed his hands over his naked chest, sending that burn down to his belly, out across to his limbs. Consuming him whole. Burning him alive.

Lars broke the kiss, the gap between them minimal. Their heavy breathing blew warm breath onto each others flushed faces.

James slid his palms up Lars’s back to his shoulders, giving them a squeeze. He tilted his head to the side, searching his face for a doubt. A hesitance.

There was none.

None.

Lars smiled down at him.

It filled up his whole vision.

He slid his hands up James’s collarbones, over his neck, to his face, cupping the cheeks in his palms.

“I love you, James.”

His eyes drifted close again as Lars leaned in.

Their noses brushed.

Against his lips, Lars whispered, “I love you so much.”

A soft kiss. A gentle pressure of lips.

Then another.

As Lars came in for the next, James whispered back, “I love you too.”

He met every kiss. Answered every one with the same passion and need Lars gave him. Their hands familiarized themselves over naked skin while they removed the minimal clothes they wore, fluttering to the ground. Some of the sheets spilled off the bed too.

James remembered the spots Lars loved. Where he enjoyed being touched. All the places he loved being kissed. The hollow of his neck. The underside of his knees. The lower part of his abdomen. His inner thighs. And Lars reciprocated. Lars knew his body well too. Touched and kissed him where James needed it most. The side of his neck. The base of his spine. The curve of each hip. His stomach. Everything James needed. Everything he missed.

They parted only once, Lars leaving James on the bed to fetch what they needed from the bathroom. James waited, watched him from where he lay. How he looked, standing naked. How he moved, coming back into the room. How he knelt between his legs, opening the tube, and James sunk back into the pillows, his eyelids fluttering shut. 

A soft moan spilled out into the heavy air when Lars finally touched him.

Slow strokes. Easy, slow strokes.

His fingers dug into the sheets. His sweaty cheek planted to the pillow. 

He groaned, "Lars..."

A soft kiss pressed to his stomach. 

A few more slow strokes.

His breath caught, listening to Lars's own moans. Listening to him prepare himself.

Hands soon settled onto his chest.

He opened his eyes. 

Lars, over him. Needing him. 

His hands settled onto Lars's hips.

One last kiss between them.

He eased Lars down. 

They moaned together as Lars settled over him and onto his lap. For a moment, they did nothing but breathe. Then, Lars moved. And James watched. Watched the slow rise and fall of his body, the way his hips moved, how his necklaces bounced on his chest, his head rolling to the side. How his fluttering eyes stayed focused on James, opening with a soft gasp, closing with a soft moan. Squeezing around James. Squeezing James’s hands on his hips. He heard his bracelets jingle with each thrust, watched him lean back, curve his spine. And when Lars whimpered his name, the sound made James gasp and moan, pushing the burn between them to a boiling point, where James couldn’t breathe. A good kind of breathlessness. The best kind.

He sat up, wrapping his arms around Lars’s moving body. His lips fell to Lars’s chest, dragging tongue and teeth down his sternum, his nose skipping over a necklace band. His fingers dug into Lars’s back, clutching skin, bruising, denting, and he groaned when Lars did the same to him, those muscled arms winding around his shoulders, a hand groping his back, the other pushing into his hair, pushing his mouth further into his chest.

And those moans. “James.” Breathless. Needy. “Please. James.”

James leaned up, pressing messy kisses to Lars’s collarbones, from one end to the other. He tilted his neck up and soaked in how he looked. His flushed cheeks. The heavy-lidded eyes. All the sweat glistening on Lars’s face and neck.

Lars gasped, “James,” again. Like a plea.

He strained his neck upwards, quieting Lars’s moans with his kiss.

His hand slid around Lars’s sweaty torso, slipping between their sweaty stomachs.

Lars let loose a deep moan into mouth.

His hand moved up and down in slow, slow strokes.

The fingers in James’s hair tightened. The hand on his back latched onto the curve of his shoulder.

Lars moaned a muffled, “James.”

Their movements sped up. They breathed faster. The bed squeaked. Bracelets rattled. Their kisses grew frantic. Messier.

And then Lars shivered, letting loose a strangled, weak cry into their kiss.

James dug nails into his skin and soon followed, groaning loud into Lars’s mouth.

Their movements slowed down. Their kiss petered out.

Lars released his grip on James’s hair, sliding the sweaty palm down the back of James’s sweaty scalp, over his neck and settling at the nape. James rubbed his own palms up and down Lars’s sweaty back, from his shoulders to the swell of his ass.

When they finally parted, they pressed their foreheads together. Their heavy breathing sounded loud in the room.

Soon, James kissed Lars again. And again. Gentle, open-mouthed kisses that Lars met and returned each time. The more they kissed, the more their breathing slowed down and their bodies relaxed.

After the last one, they pulled back, James opening his eyes first, Lars second.

They smiled together.

Small laughter bubbled out of the two of them as they kissed again, James pulling them backwards onto the bed, their arms and legs entangled.

The light from their bedroom burned a warm yellow against the darkness surrounding their home for most of the night, turning off once dawn arrived.


	14. Garden of Light

_One year later...  
Summer 2005_

“Lars, we’re here.”

Slumped against the passengers side of James’s truck, Lars snored on, his neck at a weird angle, his nose and cheek pressed against the window, and his eyes covered by a black blindfold.

James laid a hand over his bare thigh, giving it a small shake. “Lars, wake up. We’re here.”

Lars murmured. His head nudged down and to the left.

He chuckled. “C’mon babe.”

A mumble. Lars’s nose scrunched up.

One more sleepy murmur, and Lars let loose a loud yawn, his arms and legs stretching out in front of him. His head pulled away from the window, his side leaning away from the door.

“Mm.” Another yawn. His head turned towards him. “Is this it?”

“Yeah.”

“Fucking finally. My back’s killing me.”

“I warned you it’d be a long drive.”

“Yeah, but not _this_ long. Forheldve, how many hours has it been now? Four? Five?”

“Three.”

“Long enough. Can I take the stupid blindfold off now?”

“No.”

“I’ve been wearing it for an hour.”

“You can wait a minute more.”

“Ugh.” He slumped back against the door corner, arms crossing over his chest. “It better be good Hetfield, that’s all I’m saying.”

James glanced out the window to the view behind Lars: a large, secluded lake, colored a blue deeper and richer than the cloudless blue sky, surrounded by thickets of tall trees, as green as the rolling mountains behind them. A lake near Mount Shasta that he came to visit regularly. A place he heard from the mouths of his fellow hunters, with a name that appealed to his old self: Whiskeytown Lake. A personal paradise that no one knew about. Not even Lars.

“Trust me, babe.” He lifted his hand from Lars’s thigh to his face, rubbing his thumb on the cheekbone. “It will be.”

Lars’s arms unfurled. “James…”

He leaned in, kissing his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

The truck swayed some when he shut the door behind him. It swayed again and creaked as well, helping his blindfolded Lars out and onto his feet.

“There you go,” he said, shutting Lars’s passenger door with his free arm, the other around Lars’s shoulders.

Lars’s fingers clutched to his shirt. “Can I see now?”

“Not yet.”

“James.”

“Almost.” He slid his arm away, pulling Lars’s hand off his shirt. “I promise.”

Lars shook his head. “Can’t believe I let you talk me into this shit.”

James chuckled, kissing the side of his temple quick. “I love you too.”

Taking both of Lars’s hands in his, James led him forward to the lake. The dirt crunched under their feet. Summer wind rustled the trees around them. 

This was the perfect gift to give Lars for overcoming the last year. Their last hurrah before summer ended, and they returned to the studio to rehearse for the Rolling Stones gig this November. Lars had improved so much. There were still slip-ups here and there, something Dr. Klein warned Lars would happen. Depression never truly went away. But they learned a lot from the last year. About themselves, and each other. They knew what to do now. The fact they were not making the same mistakes was all James needed to be at peace. 

When the anniversary date came up for Donington, he knew Lars expected him to do something to commemorate the event. It was why, now in August, Lars agreed to come without much of a fuss. But he knew also Lars wasn’t expecting this—nor what he had planned either.

He saw no worry, no doubt on Lars’s face as he led him forward. A little annoyance. A little tired. And a little apprehension, but he wasn’t truly afraid. Lars was calm. Lars followed him, let him be driven somewhere unknown and then blindfolded an hour away from the place.

Lars trusted him.

His feet soon hit the lake’s edge.

James stopped. Lars followed suit.

“Now?” Lars asked.

“Almost.” He let go of Lars’s hands and fell to his knees.

“Oh come on. I’ve been—”

His hands touched Lars’s left calf.

Lars froze. “What are you doing?”

“Taking off your shoes.” He ran his fingers down to his ankle.

“Uh, why?”

“You’ll see.”

Lars sighed, “Okay…”

James slipped the first sandal off Lars’s foot, running a hand over the top, down to his toes, before settling it back down onto the wet ground. He repeated the gesture with his other foot, and then leaned forward, kissing the top of his bent knee.

He smiled at Lars’s flinch.

“James…”

Another kiss, higher up to his thigh. His fingers skipped down the underside of his leg.

The next kiss landed even higher.

Fingers touched his head.

He looked up.

Lars’s head wasn’t aimed in the right direction. But he looked calm. He was smiling.

The fingers slid into his hair, down to the back of his head.

James leaned into his palm.

That hand petted him once, twice.

It slid off and away from him as he came to his feet, the gap between them minimal.

Nose-to-nose, James brought his hands to the back of Lars’s head. His fingers brushed the blindfold’s ends, and he leaned in and whispered into his ear, “Keep them closed until I say ‘open.’ Okay?”

Lars nodded.

A few twists, and the blindfolded fluttered to the ground.

James’s fingers skirted down Lars’s cheeks. He took in the sight of his closed eyes, his healthy skin, his hair, his lips.

So much better than last year. Healthier. Stronger.

He pulled his hands away, weaving his fingers into Lars’s again.

A few more steps forward, and his feet entered the lake, soaking his shoes and socks.

Lars’s lips curved up, his own bare feet touching the cool water. “James?”

“Yes?”

“Where did you take us?”

The water rose over their ankles. The perfect depth. “Somewhere nice.”

“Really now.”

“Yeah.” He let go of his hands, circling around his body until he stood directly behind him, his palms settling onto Lars’s waist. “Now, I need you to stay perfectly still when I do this. Okay?”

“Why? What’re you going to do?”

“Pick you up.”

Lars’s head turned around. “James—”

“Eyes closed.”

“James, you can’t _do_ that. Your back—”

“Will be fine, as long as you stay still.” He squeezed Lars’s waist. “Trust me.”

“ _James._ ”

“Please.”

Lars sighed, his head turning back around.

His body relaxed in his hold.

“Okay.”

James slid his palms up Lars’s sides, up to his armpits.

He braced his back, legs, arms and thighs, looking over Lars’s shoulder to the view he wanted him to see, and then down to Lars’s ankles in the water.

“Ready?”

In the reflection, he caught Lars’s nod.

His hands gripped Lars firm, under his pits.

“Open.”

He lifted him up.

The strain shot across his arms, down his spine, to his knees. He pushed through it by focusing on the sight of Lars’s feet hovering over the surface of the water.

It was all worth it, for the sound of Lars’s soft gasp, and the way he looked in his reflection, staring down at his feet.

He counted to five before the strain proved too much, and he settled Lars back down, the water rising back up to his ankles. His pulsing arms wrapped around Lars’s waist, his chest molding to Lars’s back.

James settled his chin onto the curve of Lars’s shoulder and leaned his head in, his lips brushing Lars’s ear.

“See babe? You _can_ walk on water.”

He slid a hand up Lars’s chest, resting it over his heart.

“All you needed was a little help.”

Lars hiccuped a laugh, laced in a sob.

His arms fell to the side as Lars stepped away and turned around to face him.

Wet green eyes. Big smile.

Beautiful.

Beautiful, and all his.

He opened his arms.

Lars stepped into them, hands settling onto his chest as he leaned up onto his tip-toes.

His arms secured around Lars’s body, leaning down.

They met in a kiss absent of any weight from their past, but of each other, hopeful and whole, in the present and the now—ready for whatever may come, good or bad.


End file.
